// Liz // 30 // This is my writing blog, where I post Hetalia fic.
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anon's redundant now since you can probably figure out who i am, butâ! đ i would like to order #50 + nedcan for the 75 date fics! (^_-) heheâ
50. flea market
I reiterate: HELL YEAH NEDCAN! (^o^) Took a while, sorry! Ned seems like he'd be absolutely insufferable at flea markets lmao, so this is mostly Can being both amused and exasperated, but it's ok, they're in love. Also, for some reason it's 2002. I'm collecting NedCan through the decades!
Anyway, being Dutch, one of my main associations with flea markets is King's Day (in 2002 it would've still been Queen's Day, we didn't have a king then) during which there are flea markets all across the country. (Don't really know why, I guess we just like making money.) I thought it'd be fun to introduce Canada to that,,, onslaught of orange.
And as always: Maarten is Ned and Matthew is Can!
Send me a ship & a number and I'll write a fic based on that date idea
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âWell, itâs certainly⌠Colourful.â Matthew tilted his head while Maarten huffed a laugh at his side.
âVery diplomatic,â the man told him. He gently tugged on Matthewâs arm to get him out of the way of a family passing through. The children were both wearing paper crowns. At least they werenât orange.
âIsnât it strange to celebrate the Queenâs birthday by selling your old junk?â
âItâs not just junk,â Maarten said. âItâs also not actually her birthday, but thatâs neither here nor there.â
Matthew seriously doubted that first part. They were out in the center of what was now also his hometown, had been for just a few months after heâd finally made the choice to come over from Canada to the Netherlands. It was an overcast April day, and what seemed like every person was out, many dressed in orange, walking in droves along many stalls and blanket set up in the streets, where yet more people were sellingâwell, junk. A little girl was playing a violin for donations nearby, and across the water that must have once been part of the townâs moat, Matthew could see even more stalls, more people. He felt very much like a foreigner at that moment.
Maarten rubbed his hands together, looking uncharacteristically gleeful.
âI had no idea you were such a monarchist,â Matthew joked, following him when he walked into the fray. In a way, he was from a kingdom as well, but Queen Elizabeth always seemed very distant compared to whatever this was.
Maarten just looked down at him, unimpressed. He grinned. It was still amazing that they could do that now. Just⌠Look at each other. Touch each other. Neither of them was huge on PDA, but Matthew was still a little gleeful that he could reach out and touch his boyfriend after having the entire Atlantic Ocean between them for years.
Some of Maartenâs friends, many of whom had quickly become Matthewâs friends, too, thought it was very fitting to compare the two of them to the Crown Prince and his new wife, whoâd just married a month or two ago, right as Matthew had settled in in Maartenâs small hometown. She had come from South America, though. And Maarten was much handsomer than Prince Willem-Alexander.
Now, though, when Matthew snapped out of his thoughts and his mindless shuffling along with the crowd, the man was not at his side anymore. Blinking, he stopped. Turned around.
Well, good thing Maarten was very tall even by Dutch standards; it was easy to spot him towering over one of the blankets a few meters back. Apologizing, Matthew made his way back to him. He was crouched down when he got there, holdingâa video game? Matthew rested his hand on his shoulder, getting a brief glance up and a small smile, before Maarten continued to haggle in Dutch that was just a bit too rapid to fully understand. The blanket was full of random stuff, clothes and board games and books, and the woman sitting behind it in a folding chair seemed in high spirits. She grinned when Maarten took out his wallet and handed over some coins. He pocketed the game and rose.
âGood deal,â he told Matthew.
âMaarten, we donât have a game console.â
âNo, what we got, is resale value.â His green eyes brightened. âPeople donât know what they got, Matt. You know they let their kids set the prices sometimes? Incredible!â
âOh my god, is this how you feel when I talk about hockey? Ice hockey,â Matthew corrected himself immediately. Theyâd gotten into several (very petty) arguments over whether field hockey or ice hockey was the real hockey, both having played one of those, and had agreed to just call both by their full names in the end.
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â Maarten replied guilelessly. He smiled when Matthew snorted. âCome on, weâve just gotten started. Iâll buy you a stroopwafel, thereâs always a stall near the bridge that does them.â
It took them over forty minutes to get to the bridge in question, rather than the two it would normally take.
Maartenâs eye kept being caught by what seemed like random shit to Matthew. But, after the item was bought, heâd drone off an encyclopedia entryâs worth of trivia about every single purchase, first and foremost its worth in euros. How heâd already memorized all of that was a mystery, but much of his mind was.
âAnd just think, if I go to Belgium to sell, I wonât even have to account for conversion rates now!â Maarten would say. Or, âI have a contact in Germany that would pay good money for this, for sure.â
Matthew would probably get bored if it wasnât so entertaining to watch him haggle, trying to understand his rapid speech. Heâd seen him trying to sell his art to people (itâs how they met) but this was almost the opposite of that, and it was fascinating. One time, Maarten even got close to raising his voice at a man, arguing that he was taking advantage of people who didnât quite get the conversion rate from the old Dutch guilders to the new European currency. Matthew, who was still doing mental maths with Canadian dollars and euros, tuned him out, not needing an additional currency in the mix. The man was selling jewelry, surely not interesting to Maarten.
He could smell the stroopwafel stand. When he gently tugged on Maartenâs arm, his boyfriend looked at him, and his gaze softened. He let Matthew pull him away from the manâs stand.
âIâve never seen you so passionate,â Matthew told him.
âThatâs definitely not true.â Maarten adjusted the bag heâd pulled out of the pocket of his windbreaker, already quite filled.
âNot like this,â Matthew amended. âAbout other things thanâŚâ Here, he gestured vaguely, not wanting to say sex with so many people around.
âYou?â Maarten finished, and Matthew ducked his head, his face heating. That was another way to put it.
They joined the small line for the stroopwafel stall, Maarten counting his euros. Still brand new in circulation, the coins were all shiny, the bills bright and colourful.
âWell, you know, my two great loves,â the man mumbled. Matthew saw colour on his cheeks too, and smiled, touching his arm again. Silently, he took the bag of random stuff from him. He shouldered it himself, wondering how much profit he was now carrying.
Maarten bought them both stroopwafels and didnât even grumble at the price.
Across the bridge, there were yet more people. As they entered the old city centre, some of the shops there had put their wares out front for the occasion. Predictably, Maarten avoided those stalls, although he never stopped Matthew from looking at anything. More children were playing various instruments interspersed throughout, and some had set up little games that looked absolutely bizarre to Matthew. He watched people try to eat a slice of cake suspended on a string above their heads with their arms behind their backs while Maarten haggled over a womanâs handbag next to him, again resting his hand on his shoulder when he crouched. Absently, he ran his fingertips over the warm skin of his neck.
A child with a flute was playing quite a nice rendition of Canât Get You Out of My Head by Kylie Minogue, which didnât seem like it should be possible, so Matthew dug out his own wallet and gave her⌠He checked her donation box. One euro seemed appropriate.
âThatâs two guilders,â Maarten informed him, standing up.
âAnd?â
âI was lucky to get a quarter as a kid,â he said dryly.
âMaybe you were just badâwait, you played an instrument?â
âWe were great! I played the clarinet for a while. Manon played the sax, and Noah played the flute, actually.â
Matthew knew that his siblings played instruments, but this was a new revelation about Maarten. He tried to picture the three of them dressed up in orange, Maarten already with his signature spiky hair and serious expression, playing folk songs for a crowd.
âThat sounds like⌠An interesting ensemble,â he mused.
Maarten pointed at him threateningly, though humour danced in his eyes, and it was definitely undercut by the dainty, beaded bag dangling from his forearm. Matthew laughed out loud, grabbing his wrist.
âDo you still have a clarinet?â A shake of his head. âMaybe thereâs one for sale!â
That got him a disgusted look, which⌠Yeah, you probably shouldnât buy something you put in your mouth second-hand. Matthew blinked and then smirked, which changed the look to bemused.
âGuess it makes sense,â he said. And, before he could overthink it, âYou are good with your mouth.â
âWell, actually, itâs more about the fingering,â Maarten replied, quirking his brows, and then he turned while Matthew blushed through his startled laughter.
âYouâre good at that too!â he called as he hurried after him, and he saw Maartenâs shoulders jump with amusement.
In the town market square, there were more bizarre games for children, and a little stage holding a band playing Dutch classics. Matthew was happy that he could understand most of the lyrics easily. When he told Maarten this, the man smiled widely enough to tug at his eyes.
âWeâll get you speaking the local dialect nextâooh!â He rushed off when he spotted some more junk of value.
Fondness bloomed under Matthewâs skin. There was no way he could have been prepared for all of Maartenâs odd quirks, like this fascination with flea market junk, before he came to live with him. It had not yet gotten old to get the chance to learn, to let Maarten learn his little idiosyncrasies in return. Those everyday things that didnât (couldnât, in a way) come up when they talked online or over the phone, or during the relatively short visits theyâd managed since they met in New York, where neither of them knew anything.
Stillâ âMaarten, are you buying a chair?â
âUh⌠No?â
The salesman behind the chair crossed his arms.
âHow are you getting a chair home? We donât have a car and Iâm not carrying it,â Matthew said, trying not to laugh at Maartenâs expression. He really hadnât thought of that, had he? He was usually all about thinking things through, multiple times. It really was a whole new side to him.
âBut itâsââ
âNo to the chair. Iâm serious.â
ââŚFine.â
They wandered on.
A bit of sunlight worked its way through the clouds, highlighting once again just how much orange there was. An alley led them to the square in front of the local theatre, where some people were putting on a comedic re-enactment of the Royal Wedding on an outdoor stage. Further down the way, the fire department had set up shop and was doing demonstrations.
Leaving Maarten admiring (the low price of) some ornamental boxes, Matthew went over, picking up a pamphlet about joining the volunteer firefighters. Heâd done that back in Canada, and it had been a point of pride for him. He stubbornly kept speaking Dutch when the man running the stand heard his accent and tried to switch to English; he eventually caught on.
Along the side of the square, there were some stalls dedicated to people selling their art, and Matthew, on his way back to where Maarten was, admired paintings and yarn crafts and jewelry.
He stopped at the jewelry stand, hoisting Maartenâs bag of stuff up on his shoulder as something caught his eye. It only did because the small stone caught the sunlight and was somehow the exact colour of Maartenâs eyes when they lit up like theyâd been doing all day. A bright, mossy green shot through with gold, set into a gold band. The woman behind the stall smiled genially and gestured to go ahead when Matthew questioningly reached out. He plucked the ring from among some others, turning it in the sunlight.
âDid you make this?â he asked the woman, who nodded. âItâs beautiful.â
âThank you!â
Glancing over at where Maarten was picking up his new box, whatever that was, Matthew considered buying the ring. It felt incredibly sappy, really. He could see Maartenâs eyes every day now, from the moment he woke in the same bed. He didnât need some gemstone to remind him. He wore no other rings, anyway; the only gold on him was the frame of his glasses.
Just as he was about to put the ring back, Maarten walked up next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder this time.
âWhatâd you find?â he asked curiously, looking at the stall. Wow, the stone really was the exact same colour as his eyes. Dropping the ring in the palm of his hand, Matthew showed him.
The man set his wooden box down on the ground between them to take the small piece of jewelry, holding it carefully between two fingers. He hummed appreciatively; Maarten always respected art, no matter what people thought it was worth. Having seen him argue with a teenager over the price of a discman today, it stood out even more to Matthew, endearing him to Maarten further.
âItâs⌠The colour of your eyes,â Matthew told him, voice low.
âIs it really?â Maarten wet his lips. âDoes it fit?â
âOh, Iââ
Maarten swiftly grasped Matthewâs left hand and parted his lips in concentration as he slid the ring on to his ring finger. Matthew swallowed hard. It fit perfectly.
When he was done, Maarten just held his hand and stared down at it, thumbs stroking the skin.
âShould have known,â he mumbled.
âWhat?â
âI shouldâve known youâd find the exact thing Iâd been looking for this whole time.â He met Matthewâs eye, and Matthewâs heart skipped a beat at the intensity of that green gaze. âRight. Iâm getting you this. How much?â he asked the woman, who smiled an indulgent smile. He was still holding Matthewâs hand with one of his.
âFifty euros.â
âOnly fifty? You got your conversion rates right? Thatâs a hundred guildersââ
âIâm sure,â she interrupted. âWell, perhaps youâll need another one soon?â
âAh, I see!â Maarten said, amused. Then, he blanched. âMatt?â
âYes,â Matthew said, in reply to both that question and the one he hadnât actually asked.
âYou can always come by my studio,â the woman said brightly. âI also do engravings!â
Maarten pressed a crisp fifty-euro bill into her hand, picked up his box, and then dragged Matthew away.
âMattââ he started, halfway behind the stage where the fake Royal Wedding was happening. âPrincess MĂĄximaâ was crying exaggeratedly.
âYes,â Matthew repeated, turning his hand so his new ring caught the light. âYou didnât even need to get a ring.â
âI wanted to⌠Do it right.â Maarten huffed. âAnd I didnât even ask you. Go figure.â
âYou still can. Or I can ask, if you prefer.â
Though Matthew was half-joking, Maarten opened and closed his mouth, then laughed helplessly, ducking his head as a blush stole over his sharp features.
âYes,â he breathed softly.
Matthew took the box from him and set it on the ground, using the opportunity to get down on one knee. He swept blond curls out of his face and adjusted his glasses, lamenting that he wasnât wearing anything nicer than a denim jacket. Still, if he was going to ask, he was going to do it the way heâd always envisioned he would. Almost.
âMaarten van Dijk, all I have is this bag of random junk you boughtââ
âItâs got value!â
âIâm trying to propose to you!â Matthew held the canvas bag up, and despite the absurdity of the situation, found that his heart was pounding, his hands shaky. âMaarten, will you marry me?â
âYouâre just doing all the things I wanted to do,â Maarten said, grabbing his bag. âYes, Matthew, I will. I would love to.â
In the exact moment Matthew got back up and threw his arms around him, the crowd started applauding for the wedding sketch, and they both laughed, a little hysterically.
âI had a plan, Matt,â Maarten complained, pressing his lips against his cheek. âAnd none of it included random junk or an audience.â
âSo you admit itâs junk!â Matthew said triumphantly, pulling back just to gloat. Maartenâs eyes narrowed, which made him laugh before quickly kissing him.
Voice dangerously low, Maarten asked, âYou know weâre only halfway through the flea market, right?â
âWhâ Are you serious?â
âMatt, I have only just begun.â He smirked. âIt wonât be junk when it pays for our wedding.â
That made a little thrill roll through Matthew. Maartenâs eyes were still soft, and he turned his face into Matthewâs hand when he touched his cheek.
âWell, alright, lead the way,â Matthew told him. âMaybe we can hire one of those kids to do the music, huh?â
âIâm not paying them more than a quarter.â
Laughing, Matthew picked up his mysterious box and followed Maarten back into the orange crowd. He was going to ban that colour at the wedding in question, he decided.
âOoh!â Maarten said, and Matthew grinned warmly as he started to haggle with an old lady over a tiny book of poems he found among some debris on a blanket. Maarten glanced up and smiled back.
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if you're up for it maybe #7 from your spotify with whatever iceland ship fits best? (bonus points for denmark x iceland or sweden x iceland)
Thank you, sorry this took so long! There are actually only 2 possible Nordic ships I've never really written on their own, and Sve/Ice is one of them, so let's change that! (You will never guess what the other one is lol) Actually, there's hints of both Den/Ice and Sve/Ice in here, so feel free to interpret the Denmark situation how you wish, ha :)
Anyway, since I did another request with this song, this is a sequel to that other fic! (And I wanted to publish them close together.) It doesn't matter beyond the fact that Ice does magic and that Nor is dead though. (That's not a spoiler, it's literally in the summary /o\) So this one has basically nothing to do with the song and is more imagining what happens afterwards! No one else important dies! Featuring such things as two guys on one horse, romantically tense shaving, and campfire chats ;) There's definitely a vaguely Western-y flavor to it, which I think is pretty neat. Happy new year!
Of course: Egill is Iceland, TorbjÜrn is Sweden and Søren is Denmark! Norway is mentioned, he's Einar. And Liechtenstein and Switzerland have cameos, as Erika and Baron Zwingli
Send a number 1-100 and a ship/character and I'll write something inspired by the corresponding song from my most listened of 2025 :)
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Sure As The Dawn
Desperate to get away, Egill crosses the country with two men he barely knows, and gets to know them very well. One in particular.
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âWhereâs your brother?â
Egill feared heâd be hearing those words a lot. He shook his head and the man standing in front of the porch, who had asked the question, frowned, his dark eyebrows drawing together beneath his violently red hat. Egill knew he must have met him before when he was much younger and the man would have been just a boy himself, but didnât recall his name. Einar would have known. They were about the same age, and Einar always kept track of the many people they met.
âWhat? What happened?â the man asked. âI ainât never seen you without him. And he said to meetââ
âWhat?â he repeated, stupidly. Egill did not have the patience for this right now. Heâd just lost his brother, the stupid idiot, he told him it was a bad idea to linger in that stupid townâ
âSøren, leave the man alone,â another voice interrupted before the stupid manâSøren, thenâcould say anything else. His companion came around a corner of the cabin Egill had spent the night at, wiping his hands on his large coat. Egill had thought Søren was tall, even from up on the porch looking down, but this man dwarfed him. He was a lot broader, and his jaw was sharp.
He took his hat off, revealing piercing blue eyes over narrow glasses.
âSorry to hear about Einar,â he rumbled.
Clenching his jaw, Egill nodded.
The two men climbed up on the porch, and Egill sat silently as they went inside. Heâd been trying to write in his journal, but couldnât really find the words to describe what had transpired. Einar had told him to go here if something bad happened to him, to find this cabin hidden near an abandoned mine in the mountains near Kaiâs Bend, and to wait for people he could trust, but he had no idea what to do now.
Heavy footsteps on the wood, stopping next to him.
âDidnât mention my name,â said the tall man, now just in his shirt and vest, a necktie tucked into it. ââM TorbjĂśrn. Sørenâs my cousin.â
âIâm Egill,â Egill replied, doodling in the margins of his journal. He may already know that.
âYou want some food? Be happy to share.â
Egill looked up at him, sighing. Though he took some of his and Einarâs supply, he had barely eaten anything since he took the stagecoach out of that stupid town, almost three days ago; he had seen smoke rising behind him as he traveled.
âIâd like that.â He closed his journal. TorbjĂśrn held the door open to let him in, which almost got a smile out of him.
The food turned out to be some dried meat, crackers, and some vegetables that the men must have foraged on the way up the mountain, which Søren was warming on the small stove. It smelled good. The man, now sans hat, glanced over at Egill as he sat, but said nothing for the moment. TorbjÜrn sat down as well, handing him a strip of dried meat. Egill nibbled on it.
âCoffee,â Søren said, and started digging in a bag. âTorbjĂśrn, didââ
âOther one,â he said, without even looking. This time, Egill did smile, tiredly.
Søren unearthed the tin he was looking for triumphantly.
âYou want some?â he asked Egill.
âYes, please.â
Egill was silent as they ate, while the two men talked casually about what theyâd seen on the way up here, seemingly with each other although they were obviously both there at the time. He mostly ignored them, but it was nice to have some noise, Egill would admit. It made it easier to drown out his thoughts.
âEgill?â TorbjĂśrn asked, and he blinked at the man over his empty cup.
âSorry?â
âWas asking where youâre going now.â
âI donâtâEinar usually made the plans.â
âHm.â
Søren stood to go back to his pack and pulled out a map. Egil had to hastily lift his plate when he went to spread the paper on the table. It was a map of the whole country, and so the old mine wasnât marked, but the man pointed.
âWeâre âround here. TorbjĂśrn and I, we do this loop âround the whole peninsula, findinâ work along the way. You and your brother have a set itinerary like that?â
âNot really.â The country was large, but Egill felt like it was closing in on him, now. Like it would never be the same, from the mountains all the way down to the beaches in the south.
âI need to leave,â he mumbled, his throat closing up. âI canâtââ
âThe country?â Søren asked. âWe know some people down in Havenbridge, brothers. Theyâll get you on a boat anywhere youâd like.â
Egill found the city way on the southern point of the peninsula. It was a long way, but here in the north, the mountains were nearly impassable even in the spring, so a boat was the only viable way to leave.
âYou can come with us,â Søren added. âMuch cheaper than gettinâ on a train or a stagecoach.â
A large part of Egill dreaded having to spend so much time with people he didnât know, but he didnât have nearly enough money to get down to the city any other way. Walking would take months, and even then, how would he find these brothers with the boat Søren apparently knew?
âAlright,â he sighed, and then yelped in alarm when Søren clapped him on the back.
They spent the night at the cabin, Egill tossing and turning restlessly up in the loft while TorbjÜrn rumbled snores and Søren mumbled in his sleep downstairs. When he finally fell asleep, his dreams were full of fire.
In the morning, it was the smell of coffee that woke Egill. Søren was alone downstairs, his long coat already on. It had a lining just as red as his hat, which seemed a little ostentatious to Egill and clashed with his coppery hair.
âMorninâ!â the man said, much too brightly. âTorbjĂśrnâs packinâ, heâs taken your things out to the horses too.â
Mildly annoyed, Egill pulled his boots on and went outside to find the other man by the side of the house, securing saddlebags to a grey horseâs saddle. Egillâs meager belongings were set on the wooden banister of the porch, leaning against the wall. He went over to take out his journal and, after some consideration, his knife. TorbjĂśrn just hummed silently, seemingly unbothered.
It was a sunny spring day, still cool up in the mountains. Good weather for traveling. When TorbjĂśrn held his hand out, Egill handed him his bag, which he added to the saddle.
âThink youâll be alright riding with Søren?â he asked, patting his horse.
âSøren?â Egill asked, surprised. He hadnât considered⌠The other horse, a chestnut mare, had fewer saddlebags, he noticed. âCanât I⌠Walk?â
TorbjĂśrnâs lips twitched as if he were trying not to smile.
âWhile weâre up here, probably. Donât think you can keep up with a trot, though.â
âIâve gotâIâve got stamina,â Egill protested, then felt his cheeks flush when the tall manâs eyebrows rose. âIâll share with Søren.â
He hurried back inside to drink coffee, and he wrote briefly in his journal, recording the date and place. In the margin, he drew a complex pattern of intersecting linesâa new stave that he could use, although he wasnât sure yet what for.
âYou do that too, huh?â Søren asked. Egill snapped the notebook closed on instinct.
âEinar was better at it,â he mumbled, looking up over his shoulder.
âAinât that just the way.â Søren shrugged. âCould come in handy. I ainât never met anyone else like you two. Real amazinâ.â
This time, his hand landed softly on Egillâs shoulder. He squeezed quickly. Egill stood, shrugging him off.
âAre we leaving?â
Søren blinked, then nodded and grinned, saying, âLet me introduce you to my horse!â
The horse, it turned out, was named Harald, and Søren just shrugged and grinned some more when Egill pointed out that it was, in fact, female. TorbjĂśrn, behind Sørenâs back, raised his eyebrows again, unimpressed overtop his glasses, and Egill smiled.
Itâd been a while since heâd ridden, but once they made their way down to a relatively well-kept dirt road that must lead up to Kaiâs Bend eventually, he agreed to get on Harald behind Søren. TorbjĂśrn stood next to the horse, seemingly ready to help, as if he were a child. Harald, to her credit, seemed perfectly content to stand still while Egill awkwardly put his foot in the stirrup and tried not to grab any part of Søren, who scooted forward, as he tried to swing himself up.
âHere,â said TorbjĂśrn. âLean on me.â
Egill wasnât sure that was better. Flushing again, he leaned one hand on TorbjĂśrnâs broad shoulder to give himself leverage, and then squeaked embarrassingly when the man grabbed his waist with his massive hands, all but lifting him onto Harald.
Once Egill was on, Søren had to reach back and grab his thigh to prevent him from toppling off the other side.
âFuck,â he yelped, instinctively grabbing his flashy coat. âOkay, IâmâIâm here.â He wriggled his foot out of the stirrup so Søren could put his in and tried to lean back against the saddlebags, putting distance between them. Søren patted his thigh while TorbjĂśrn mounted his grey horse, and off they went.
The road was pretty quiet. The three of them passed one cart carrying timber, the driver of which greeted them amicably, and only two or three people on horseback going up to Kaiâs Bend. Egill kept leaning back, holding the saddlebags, and was actually quite comfortable. Søren tried to talk to him, asking him about his and Einarâs previous travels, but he pretended he hadnât heard, and the man took the hint after a while, speaking to his cousin instead.
After maybe an hour or two, the road opened up into the valley, where the river was fast and deep and Egill, peering around Søren, could see several buildings dotted along the banks. They stopped for a moment.
âIf we just follow the river, we should be able to get to Havenbridge in about three weeks,â Søren said over his shoulder. Egill hummed, shifting. Harald shook her head, and Søren knocked her on the neck gently, saying, âGood girl!â
They rode down into the valley, encountering some more people, and eventually stopped for a break at the riverside, eating some more dried meat. Søren cracked his back and wandered down to the water with the horses so they could drink.
Egill looked up at the mountains, shading his eyes, at least until TorbjĂśrn appeared next to him and silently offered him a hat. Luckily, it was just a plain brown one. Egill put it on, nodding his thanks.
âGot a question,â TorbjĂśrn said.
âYes?â
âCan you hunt?â
âHunt?â
ââS a long way down to the city. Normally, weâd stop, earn some money to get supplies.â
âRight.â Egill looked up at him. âI can make snares.â Ones that were effective and quick, thanks to magic staves carved into the materials.
At that, Egill laughed abruptly. The sound felt rusty to him, but it made TorbjĂśrn definitely smile, his light eyes glittering in the shadow of his hat.
âThat makes sense.â
âYou comfortable on there?â TorbjĂśrn nodded towards where Harald was eating riverside plants.
âEnough,â Egill shrugged. Another hum, the smile still playing around his full lips.
As they continued their journey, Egill was grateful for the hat, because it felt much warmer down here, and he knew he was prone to burningâand he couldnât imagine that TorbjĂśrn and Søren werenât, both having very light skin and freckles, Søren more than TorbjĂśrn. There were even some on the back of his neck, where his coppery hair curled against his collar.
Egill stared unseeingly at the bit of skin, imagining new staves. He stared until his eyelids drooped, and his head lurched forward suddenly, knocking against Sørenâs back. He shot up, grabbing his hat as Søren grabbed for him, shouting in alarm.
âEgill?â asked TorbjĂśrn, trotting over on his horse.
âFuck, Iâm sorry,â Egill said, heart pounding. Heâd grabbed Sørenâs arm, the manâs hand on his hips again.
âSleepy?â TorbjĂśrn guessed. ââS getting late anyway, should find a place to rest.â
It was getting dark already, Egill noticed with a jolt. Most of the valley was deep in shadow.
None of them, of course, were strangers to spending the night outside, and so it was quick work to set up a little camp, securing canvas to trees for shelter and starting a little fire, which TorbjĂśrn was in charge of.
Egill, out of habit, sought out a large rock and carried it into the light, taking out some charcoal to etch protective staves on its surface.
âOh, whatâs that for?â Søren asked curiously. TorbjĂśrn frowned as he got out a pan.
âThis oneâs for protection from wildlife,â Egill explained. And, finishing the other symbol, âThis one is to help keep us alert in sleep.â
âVery nice!â Søren clapped him on the back. âAinât that right, TorbjĂśrn?â
ââF you believe it,â the man rumbled, pouring something into his pan. âCanât hurt.â
Egill was a little confused by this difference in belief, but he didnât mind. He knew what he could do. He concentrated on the stone, pouring power in, and then set it next to the fire.
Nothing happened during the night. He slept better.
In fact, nothing much happened for the next three days of travel. The three of them made steady progress south along the river, with Egill riding behind TorbjĂśrn for one of them, but that made his thighs ache more than they already had, and he couldnât see anything around his broad back, so he gave up on that to ride Harald with Søren. The landscape was slowly changing into hills, wildly in bloom with spring flowers that made Egill sneeze.
He caught rabbits in his snares that they had for dinner, with TorbjĂśrn pointing out herbs for him to pick. It was strangely peaceful, even with Sørenâs need to talk the whole way through.
On the fifth day of their journey, they noticed that the road was getting busier. By the early afternoon, theyâd reached a moderately sized town. Egill had definitely been here before, but he and Einar tended to stay in smaller places. Neither of them were great with cities.
âAh, the wonderful scent of the city!â Søren said, as they rode in. Egill was sure that wasnât a compliment, but heâd been sneezing so much he couldnât smell anything right then.
âWe oughta stay a day, let the horses get some rest. Do some shoppinâ,â he added, while pouting after neither Egill nor TorbjĂśrn laughed.
âGood plan,â TorbjĂśrn said, glancing questioningly at Egill, who nodded. With any luck, heâd be able to have a real bath after washing off in the icy river, and get some new soap to carry along for his clothes. Heâd barely had this coat a month, and it deserved to look nice.
Søren seemed to know where he was going, leading Harald through busy streets to a little hotel tucked away behind a theater. He jumped off the horse, swinging one long leg over her head, and told them heâd get a room.
âA room?â Egill asked, but he was already gone. He patted Haraldâs warm neck, mumbling, âYouâre lucky you canât understand him.â
TorbjĂśrn got off his own horse, which didnât seem to have a name, with a thump, and then he held a hand up to Egill, who took it without thinking about it, to get off Harald. He groaned when he landed on the paved ground, his whole body aching. He was used to walking, not riding. TorbjĂśrn gently squeezed his fingers. Egill stared down at their joined hands as if they werenât attached to his body. TorbjĂśrn really had very large hands, dwarfing his own, and they were warm and callusedâŚ
âMhâthanks!â Egill mumbled, and pulled his hand back.
âGot a place!â Søren announced as he came back outside. âTwo nights, horses can go âround back, and they got a bath on offer.â
âVery good,â TorbjĂśrn said.
It was indeed very good, though Egill nearly jumped out of his skin when someone knocked on the door during his bath and asked if he wanted assistance. His no was nearly a yell. He was a grown damn man, he could wash himself.
He shaved for the first time since he left Kaiâs Bendâhis beard didnât grow quickly, and he felt uncomfortable doing it without a mirror. It was unfortunate that he had to put the same clothes back on. Maybe, he should get an extra shirt tomorrow. If he had enough moneyâhold on.
Walking back into the room Søren had gotten them, he asked, âDid you pay for me as well?â
Søren wasnât there, just TorbjĂśrn, looking out of the window in his shirtsleeves.
ââS one room,â he said, looking over his shoulder. âPrice is the same.â
âI should contribute. Iâm the reason youâre going down south in the first place.â
TorbjĂśrn turned to him fully, looking down at him. Heâd actually gotten a slight tan from the spring sun, and his eyes seemed even bluer now. Egill was still just as pale, just like Søren.
âAlright,â he said. ââF thatâs what you prefer.â
Egill nodded. He did not want to feel like a burden, even if he clearly was.
Søren, when he got back with meals from the pub down the street, tried to argue the point. The food, he claimed to have won off someone in a card game, so Egill would let that go, but Søren insisted that no payment was needed for the room.
At least until TorbjĂśrn, just when Egill was about to start yelling at Søren that he wasnât a fucking child, interrupted in an unusually sharp tone, saying, âLet the man pay you back, Søren.â
Søren opened his mouth, but shut it after looking at his cousinâs face.
âFine, then. If it matters so much to you.â
It did.
Luckily, Søren was much less hard-headed about letting Egill draw a stave on his meal tray to make sure it was safe to eat. Egill was not taking any chances after what happened in Goldcrest with his brother. TorbjÜrn let him do it, too, though he was clearly not bothered.
It was also very good to sleep in an actual bed again.
The next day, though Egill was very sore from riding for almost a week, they ventured into the city to collect some supplies. Some tinned vegetables and dried meat for the road, and Egill got a new whetstone for his knife, pretty sure heâd forgotten his old one in Goldcrest. He considered buying a gun of some kind, but decided it wasnât worth the money; heâd never been a good shot anyway. Instead, he spent it on a new shirt, plain white, and let himself be talked into purchasing a neckerchief he didnât really need.
Søren got his hair cut and pomaded in the back of a pub, and TorbjÜrn bought a new straight razor and a bag for his horse.
While Søren tried to win more card games and maybe earn some money that way, Egill and TorbjĂśrn sat in a quiet corner to eat dinner, and Egill couldnât help but ask the question that had been plaguing his mind.
âDoes your horse not have a name?â
Amusingly, TorbjĂśrn tried to hide his face behind his mug of ale.
âWhat is it?â
ââM surprised Søren hasnât told you yet.â
âMaybe he has, heâs very easy to ignore,â Egill confessed. He was pleased that TorbjĂśrn huffed a laugh. âIs it more stupid than Harald?â
âTorbjĂśrn Jr,â TorbjĂśrn mumbled. Egill blinked, but he didnât seem to be joking.
âSorry, TorbjĂśrnââ
âFriend of mine named him. âS the only name heâll listen to now.â He sounded very long-suffering, and Egill laughed out loud.
âSo that wasnât Sørenâs fault?â he asked.
âOne of the men in Havenbridge weâre going tâsee. Thought he was very funny.â
âTorbjĂśrn Jr,â Egill repeated under his breath.
âYâdonât want a horse âf your own?â TorbjĂśrn asked, obviously attempting to change the topic.
âI canât afford that. Besides, itâs⌠Not so bad, sharing.â
A hum, Egill guessed inquisitive.
âI donât have to look at Sørenâs face,â he added jokingly, and TorbjĂśrn once again laughed softly. The sound was gentle, not matching his intimidating appearance at all, and it made Egill smile in turn, a pleased flush stealing over him.
Søren stayed behind, finishing his game, when Egill and TorbjĂśrn returned to their hotel. In the light of a gas lamp, they looked at a map, seeking out the town they were in and following the river down to the sea. It was still a ways to go, but Egill found that he didnât mind so much.
Now that he had left the mountains behind, the memory of Einarâs death already stung just a little less. It felt just a little less like he was going to suffocate under it, though he was sure it would always weigh on him.
Before Søren came back in, they decided it was time to sleep. Not wanting to get his new shirt sweaty, and also having access to quite nice covers to sleep under, Egill took it off to go to bed, his back turned to TorbjÜrn. He was so pale he nearly glowed in the sparse light; amused, Egill held up his bare arm and wondered if he could think of a stave that would actually make him glow. That might be useful. TorbjÜrn made a sudden noise, as if he was choking, but he was fine when Egill turned, climbing into his own bed with his back turned. Egill did the same.
âGânight,â TorbjĂśrn said.
âGoodnight.â Egill bit his lip. âTorbjĂśrn Sr.â
The exasperated groan from the other side of the room made him laugh. He didnât even hear Søren return.
The next day, there was good news and there was bad news. The good news was that Søren had done well in his game, had won a good sum, and so insisted on stopping on the way out of town to buy extra coffee for the road. He walked alongside Harald while Egill sat atop the horse and tried not to laugh every time he saw TorbjÜrn Jr.
The bad news was that the weather had turned, and spring rain was now falling down. It wasnât heavy, but it was cold, and Egill hadnât yet thought to stitch staves for imperviousness and warmth into his new shirt. The ones in his other clothes were wearing out; Einar had done those. He was always better at them.
Søren and TorbjĂśrn, of course, had not even that, and TorbjĂśrn was squinting through glasses full of raindrops. Still, they went on, out of the city. For now, they would follow the railroad tracks, because the river meandered far west at this point while the tracks went almost straight south to Wildrose Valley, which was about halfway between Kaiâs Bend and Havenbridge, and would take two or three days to reach.
At the end of a miserable dayâs ride that even Sørenâs coffee couldnât make better, all three of them were grumpy, but they set up camp in a relatively sheltered dell. Though the foliage wasnât thick yet, the trees still provided some cover. TorbjĂśrn sat under a canvas and was trying to light a fire when Egill returned from setting up his tent and the magic staves to protect them. Søren was looking after the horses.
Predictably, TorbjĂśrn was having a difficult time getting the wet wood to take a spark, grumbling under his breath as he struck match after match.
âCan I try?â Egill asked. With a disgruntled hum, TorbjĂśrn handed him the matches. Sitting down on the log next to him, Egill set them down, instead pulling a piece of wood from the little pile of kindling and drawing his knife from his belt. He did this often when he traveled with his brother; he was better at fire.
Into the wet piece of wood, Egill carved a familiar stave. TorbjĂśrn watched with obvious skepticism, and Egill couldnât help but smile at him, excited despite himself to be able to prove him wrong. He held the wood in his left hand, folding his fingers around it, and took a deep, concentrated breath to push his power into the stave.
The wood crackled and burst into flame.
TorbjĂśrn jolted, and his eyes widened behind his glasses, now reflecting the small flame in Egillâs hand. It didnât hurt. Carefully, he used the flame to light the kindling, and he knew the rest of the wood would catch easily now.
âThere you go,â he said to TorbjĂśrn, who was silently looking at him, expression unreadable. His hair looked gold in the firelight. Egill wriggled nervously, clearing his throat. âTorbjĂśrn?â
Suddenly, the man moved. He reached for Egillâs hand, cradling it gently with both of his own, holding his palm up with his warm thumbs swiping over the sensitive skin there.
âIâmâIâm alright,â Egill said through a shiver, meeting his eye.
âDidnât think⌠Didnât believe it was real.â
âYou knew Einar, didnât you?â Egill shivered once more when TorbjĂśrnâs callused thumbs swept over the inside of his wrist. The touch was so soft.
âSøren knew Einar. I knew of him. What he told me seemedâŚâ
âI donât blame you. I donât think Iâd believe him either.â
TorbjĂśrn quirked a small smile, glancing over at the fire.
ââS really incredible, Egill.â This time, he swept his long fingers over Egillâs palm, but he startled when he made a noise. He dropped his hand. âIâllâcook.â He nudged his glasses up.
âOkay,â Egill breathed. He rubbed his own hand, which now felt cold. âOh, uh, do you have any sewing supplies?â
TorbjÜrn told him they were in his saddlebags, so Egill reluctantly stood and went to see where Søren had left those.
With the fire crackling and all three of them sheltered underneath the tarp, the rain didnât seem so bad. Søren dozed after dinner. TorbjĂśrn watched, now with curiosity, while Egill stitched staves into his new shirt and channeled some power into the old ones.
âHowâd you learn these?â the man asked, leaning close. His hands were now clasped around an empty bowl, and his deep voice rumbled in Einarâs ear.
âMy father taught us some, but Einar and I, we both just know when something works.â
âIncredible,â TorbjĂśrn said again.
âShouldâshall I make one for you?â
ââF you want.â
Swallowing, Egill nodded, and TorbjĂśrn took his large, dark blue coat off. It was a nice coat, heavy and still warmed when Egill pulled it over his legs. He doubted it needed the stave, as it was obviously well-made, but he set to stitching it into the back of the collar.
It was quick work, and he pushed a good amount of his power into it.
âItâll wear off over time,â he told TorbjĂśrn, handing the coat back to him. Yawning, he felt his head pound suddenly. That might have been a little too much power. âIf it doesnât work anymore, I can redo it.â He pressed a hand against his temple.
âMaybeâyou alright?â
âOverdid it. I just need to sleep.â
TorbjĂśrn had to steady him when he stood. Egill leaned on his shoulder, closing his eyes.
âCome.â TorbjĂśrn stood too, and steered Egill to his tent with his hands on both shoulders, draping his coat over him.
âTorbjĂśrn, IâmâIâm fine,â Egill protested. âThereâs no need.â
On the other side of the fire, Søren jolted and made a confused noise.
âRest,â TorbjĂśrn said. And, when Egill did duck into his tent after being once more relieved of his coat, âGood. Thank you, Egill.â
âYeah, of course,â he stuttered. âOf course.â He lay down and tried not to think about the unexpected softness of TorbjĂśrnâs voice. He was kind. And despite being at most ten years older than him, he probably thought of Egill as a helpful child, a charge even. Egill wouldnât be surprised if that was how he saw everyone.
But then again⌠His hand tingled with the memory of the manâs touch. Egill turned over on his bedroll, curled into a ball and willed himself to sleep.
Fortunately, though dawn was grey, the rain had ceased. They continued their journey. Wildrose Valley was close, already visible in the distance between the hills, but they agreed they had no business in the city and would travel around it.
âIt ainât much anyway,â Søren told Egill, gesturing at the smoke rising on the horizon. The road was fairly busy. âUnless youâre lackinâ in company, if yâknow what I mean.â
âIâm not,â Egill said.
âNo, I suppose yâainât.â Søren grinned over his shoulder, and Egill was startled into smiling back.
âNo one could be, with you around,â TorbjĂśrn put in from behind them on TorbjĂśrn Jr, dryly. Egill bit his lip to keep from laughing at Sørenâs pout.
They did take advantage of being close to the city to stop at a roadside bakery and pick up fresh bread, which smelled amazing. TorbjĂśrn even helped the baker lift a barrel of grain and got an extra bit of honey cake for his trouble, carefully wrapped in wax paper for the road. His hum was definitely pleased. Egill was starting to learn to differentiate them.
And so, they had a little feast that evening, as Søren caught several fishâaided by a stave etched into his fishing poleâin a stream that fed into the river that ran through the city. Egill made his usual protections, walking around camp.
TorbjĂśrn looked up when he sat down beside him, stretching his sore legs.
âYou alright?â he asked.
âFine,â Egill confirmed.
âTired?â
âTorbjĂśrn, Iâm fine.â
A hum, this one indecipherable to Egill.
âHey, Egill,â Søren said, coming over, âwanna play a game?â
He taught Egill how to cheat at card games, grinning with delight when he was tricked.
âEinar never let me play,â Egill told him absently.
âLookinâ after you, Iâd imagine.â Søren stilled for a moment. âGonna be another week and a half down to Havenbridge.â
Egill nodded as he ran his fingers over the edge of his cards.
âYou still planninâ to leave?â
He looked up at Søren. Opened his mouth, then closed it and bit his lip. He played a card and Søren did too, a very bad one.
âWhy else would I still be here?â Egill asked, staring at the cards. He put another down.
âIâd like to think weâve grown on you, Egill.â His tone was joking, but somehow soft. ââCause I do think youâve grown on us. Companionship and all that.â
Egill glanced over at TorbjĂśrn, who was running his finger over the collar of his coat, where heâd sewn the stave. Søren raised his dark eyebrows.
âItâs your turn,â Egill told him.
âIt sure is.â He didnât say anything more.
South of Wildrose Valley, the river split the landscape in two. On one side, there was the Lake Valley, which was a generous name for what was mostly swampland, where Einar had liked to tell Egill strange creatures dwelt, and on the other side was another rocky, mountainous area. The main road and the train tracks both veered west there, around the whole wet area, but, after another day of travel and a night spent under the stars, the three travelers stayed on the eastern bank, taking smaller roads up into the hills.
Although some rain fell, it wasnât too bad, and they were making good headway when TorbjĂśrn, ahead of Harald on the path, suddenly pulled TorbjĂśrn Jr to a halt.
âWhatâs goinâ on?â Søren asked loudly, but Egill could hear what TorbjĂśrn had evidently heard and shushed him. Someone was yelling for help, cutting off abruptly. TorbjĂśrn squinted.
Another shrill shriek, and he took off, away from the path.
âHey!â said Søren, and wheeled Harald around to follow him. They were forced to jump off the horse at a steep incline, both hurrying after TorbjĂśrn and towards the harrowing sounds of a fight, which Søren now evidently heard too. He pulled out his pistol, cocking it. Egill drew his knife.
âHey!â TorbjĂśrn said in a booming voice that Egill had not yet heard from him but what he probably would have imagined him to sound like from his appearance. Like a roll of thunder, it was loud and intimidating. Søren tugged Egill behind a tree.
In a small clearing, there were two men and a young woman, younger than Egill, sat on the ground and looking terrified. Several other men were on the ground, evidently having been taken out in the fight, and random items were scattered about. When they saw TorbjĂśrn, one of the men immediately pointed his pistol at the girlâs head. She cried out, and Søren swore under his breath.
âStay here,â he told Egill, and began to scamper in her direction, hiding in the brush.
Stay here? Was he serious?
âYou turn back now,â said the other man. He raised his own gun towards TorbjĂśrn. âNothinâ happened here, alright?â
The young woman sobbed silently, shoulders shaking beneath her fancy purple dress. Egill, who had his knife in his hand anyway, started carving a stave into the tree. The one heâd been working on in his journal.
âI wonât. You will,â said TorbjĂśrn, steadily.
âOr what?â
As if on cue, Søren appeared behind the men, and he fired once at the one holding the gun on the girl, hitting his shoulder and knocking him to the mossy ground while he snatched her up with lightning-quick movements. They were both scrambling away when the uninjured man fired at them, disappearing between the trees.
The man who had fired at them whirled back to TorbjĂśrn just as TorbjĂśrn knocked his companion out with one slam of his massive fist. Egillâs hands were sweating, and he almost dropped his knife and leapt out, but TorbjĂśrn was fast, getting close in one big step to grab the manâs arm, twisting it so that he dropped his gun.
âOw! Ow, letâfuck!â
TorbjĂśrn knocked him out just as unceremoniously, and glanced around the clearing with a deep frown. He whistled. From somewhere in the woods, a whistle sounded back. He kneeled down to pick up the fallen menâs weapons, glancing over at them continuously.
It all happened very quickly, and was perhaps not the first time the cousins had done this, but Egill still felt stupid and useless, could feel his power bubbling with the tension still. Søren emerged from the trees on the other side, his arm around the terrified girlâs shoulders, and TorbjĂśrn started to ask him something, turning away. And so, Egill was the only one who noticed movement, as two separate banditsâthe one who had fired at Søren and one who had already been knocked outâboth clambered to their feet, both somehow still having weapons to draw.
He had no time to think. With a yell, he slammed his hand into the tree and channeled all the simmering power under his skin into it. He felt a thousand tiny pieces of bark rip off, could feel them fly into the clearing with the speed of a bullet, past TorbjĂśrn without hitting him. They seemed to be sparking with light. Just as both men fired their guns, they were hit, knocked back with an incredible force as wood splintered and dug into their skin. They both fell over, shots going wide. One of them yelled, and Egill grimaced, looking at the lines of his new stave, reading sleep and heat both.
As the man went quiet, Egill sagged, power draining from him.
When he stumbled, he was surprised that TorbjÜrn caught him. Egill grabbed his coat, hanging on, burying his face in the heavy fabric as he shook. Søren was speaking, and so was the young woman, but TorbjÜrn just held him, strong hands on his back, now so gentle again. One curved around the back of his neck.
âEgill?â the man said, after what might have been an hour.
Egill blearily blinked at him.
âThank you,â he said quietly, though Egill could feel his voice vibrate in his chest.
âIsâdid I kill them?â he asked, voice catching.
TorbjĂśrn squeezed his neck and said, âYes.â
âFuck.â
âHe wouldâve killed me.â His tone wasnât matter-of-fact, but he didnât sound horrified. He repeated, âThank you.â
Egill made a noise in the back of his throat and hid his face in TorbjĂśrnâs coat again. He was exhausted. Staves werenât meant for things like this. Heâd just been so scared, so⌠Angry. After Einar, he couldnât lose these new people in his life too.
âWeâre taking the young lady home,â TorbjĂśrn was telling him. âCome. Can you walk?â
Although he could probably easily carry Egill, he let him struggle down the hillside, only supporting him when he stumbled. They made it back down to the horses, and Egill saw that the girl was now on Harald, sitting aside behind Søren, arms wrapped around him. Egill didnât protest when TorbjĂśrn all but lifted him onto TorbjĂśrn Jr, although he yelped halfheartedly when he realized that the man was swinging into the saddle behind him, his legs pressing into Egillâs and arms reaching around to hold the reins.
If he had been more awake, Egill might have objectedâthen again, he might not haveâbut now, he let himself lean back against TorbjĂśrnâs broad chest and go limp.
He was nearly asleep when they reached the young womanâs residence. He only noticed this because they were immediately greeted by an irate blond man in a top-hat running out of the massive building.
âErika!â he shouted. âWhat happened? Who are these people?â
Søren helped the girlâErika, thenâoff Harald so she could explain. TorbjĂśrn leaned forward, his hat knocking into Egillâs head, to ask if he was awake. He must have lost his own hat when he caused the tree to explode.
âMaybe,â he replied, turning his head a little. TorbjĂśrn let go of his horseâs reins to touch his thigh, leaving his warm hand there for a moment. Fascinated, Egill stared down at the way his whole leg was covered, and touched the back of his hand. He squeezed slightly.
âHey!â Søren called. He jerked his chin. The man and the girl both looked up at them, his arm wrapped protectively around her narrow shoulders. They looked alike in the same way that people used to say Egill and Einar did.
TorbjĂśrn helped Egill off TorbjĂśrn Jr, holding him steady.
âI can see youâre tired,â said the man. âYou saved my sisterâs life, and for that, I am more than grateful. Youâre welcome to rest here for a few days.â
 Erika nodded, eyes wide. TorbjĂśrn squeezed Egillâs shoulder, and Søren looked at them.
âThank you. Weâre happy to take you up on that generous offer, Baron Zwingli.â
It was very odd to hear Søren speak so formally, almost making Egill laugh. Where had he learned that?
âGood. Come, my staff will show youâŚâ
Egill let himself be led by the shoulders, not paying attention until he was finally presented with a wonderfully large bed with fresh sheets. He sat down at the foot of it, and looked at TorbjĂśrn as the man kneeled down in front of him. He tugged at his boots.
âYou donât have to take care of me,â Einar mumbled, or did his best to, even as he shuffled up on the bed and wriggled his toes.
TorbjĂśrn hummed, and tucked him in. He fell asleep.
When Egill woke, he was disoriented, alone in an unfamiliar bedchamber. Sunlight streamed through high windows, and it was quiet. No snoring, no mumbling, no rustling of leaves or rushing of water. Rubbing his eyes, Egill sat up.
Oh, right, they had apparently rescued a Baronâs sister, and he had⌠Heâd saved TorbjĂśrnâs life.
Climbing out of the bed, Egill pulled his boots on, and went out.
The house was pleasantly warm, and richly decorated even in the hallways. A broad staircase led down into the foyer, and Egill could hear a familiar laugh echoing from outside the entrance doors. He hurried towards it.
Søren had evidently already made friends with the Baronâs staff and was helping a man carry a bucket somewhere, talking animatedly. When he saw Egill come outside, he stopped, put his bucket down, and rushed over. He clasped his shoulders, and Egill was startled to see a deep relief on his freckled face, etched among the laugh lines.
âSørenââ
âI am so glad youâre awake, yâscared the hell outta us, passinâ out for a whole day like that. How dâyou feel? You hungry?â
Søren,â Egill tried again. âA whole day?â
âJust about. TorbjĂśrnâs beenââ
âSøren, I canâtââ the man in question was saying, frantically, bursting outside in an entirely un-TorbjĂśrn-like mannerâ âfind⌠Egill.â He trailed off when he saw Egill, who waved awkwardly.
âIâm okay,â he said, and then he was being pulled out of Sørenâs grip and into TorbjĂśrnâs arms, which wrapped all the way around him. He muffled a noise into the manâs vest, which smelled clean and was warm. TorbjĂśrnâs breath ghosted over his temple, ruffling his messy hair.
Slowly, Egill wrapped his arms around the man in turn, pressing his hands against his back.
âIâm okay,â he repeated, although his voice got caught in his throat when TorbjĂśrn turned his head so that his lips brushed his temple.
âTold you heâd be fine,â said Søren. âHeâs a resilient one.â
TorbjÜrn hummed, rumbling in his chest. Egill categorized this one as relief, and then tried to extricate himself, suddenly very aware of what was happening and that Søren was right there.
As soon as he stepped back, Søren asked, âWhat about me, do I get a hug?â
âSøren,â said TorbjĂśrn.
Biting his lip, Egill did turn to Søren, and hugged him too, yelping when he was pulled close. Søren was also warm, and he sighed deeply, which Egill also categorized as relief. It didnât last nearly as long, though, and the man clasped his shoulder briefly when they parted.
âTorbjĂśrnâll take care of you. I got horses to feed.â He went back to his bucket.
âHungry?â TorbjĂśrn asked.
Egill was. Baron Zwingli had apparently given them free use of his house as long as they stayed out of his and his sisterâs rooms, so TorbjĂśrn took Egill to the kitchen to beg some food off the cook, who was more than happy to help the men whoâd saved Erikaâs life.
After that, Egill realized he was in desperate need of a bath, and that his clothes needed cleaning. TorbjĂśrn went to tell someone to get warm water ready, and then led Egill to the correct room. The bath was steaming in the sunlight and smelled great.
âLet me take your clothes to get washed,â TorbjĂśrn said, hovering in the doorway. Halfway through unbuttoning his vest, desperate to get in the tub, Egill turned to him, irritated despite himself.
âYou donât have to take care of me,â he said once again. âIâm not a child.â
âI know,â TorbjĂśrn said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
âThen why do youâI thought youââ Egill angrily threw his vest on the ground and started on his shirt.
âI want to,â TorbjĂśrn said, with some force behind it.
âYou want to?â
âLook after you. Want you to beââ He cut himself off when Egill removed his shirt, throwing it down as well and leaving him in his sleeveless undergarments.
âTo be what?â Egill asked, stalking over, although he faltered a little when he realized TorbjĂśrn was staring at his bare arms, where staves were inked into his skin, disappearing underneath his last layer. The manâs blue eyes were wide. âTo be what?â
TorbjĂśrn cleared his throat, licking his lips. âHappy,â he said. âIâll⌠Wait outside. Hand me your clothes âround the door.â
Baffled, Egill did just that, and he got in the bath. It was perfect.
He didnât consider what he would wear until his clothes were done being laundered, before there was a knock on the door.
âEgill?â It was TorbjĂśrn. ââVe brought you some of my clothes to wear, âf you want. Already clean.â
âOh.â Egill felt himself flush, and not because of the water, which had cooled down quite a bit. Heâd been here for a while. âThank you.â
TorbjĂśrn placed them just inside the door in a little pile, only his arm visible.
He quickly got out of the bath, dried off, and got into TorbjĂśrnâs pants and shirt, both of which were, of course, comically large on him. The collar was slipping when he opened the door to let the man back in.
ââS not ideal.â There was some humor in TorbjĂśrnâs voice, although his gaze lingered much too long on Egillâs collarbone.
âBetter than nothing.â
âMaybe,â TorbjĂśrn said, then cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. What did that mean?
âI need to shave,â Egill said.
âHm. So do I.â TorbjĂśrn had quite an impressive beard, after what must have been just two or three days without shaving. âHere.â He pulled out his own new razor, handing it to Egill.
âCan I⌠Add something?â
At TorbjĂśrnâs nod, Egill laid the razor down on the edge of the washbasin and, using the sharp edge of a chipped piece of it, etched in a magic stave. His power felt good, back to normal.
âWhat does that one do?â TorbjĂśrn asked.
âThe stave?â
âStave,â he echoed. âYes.â
âItâs to prevent cuts.â
âUseful.â
TorbjĂśrn watched him shave, hands clasped in front of him. The air was still warm.
Eventually, he said, âYou saved my life, Egill.â
âMaybe. IâŚâ He rinsed the razor in the basin. âSomeone is dead, because of me.â His hand shook, but he didnât cut himself. He still could, even with the stave, if it got worse.
âI know âs not an easy thing. Here.â TorbjĂśrn took the razor from him, and Egill let him, turning away from the mirror. He used his left hand, just like Egill did, using his right to touch Egillâs face, tilting his head back.
A vulnerability swept over Egill, but he felt no urge to flee, not even to cover up. It was odd.
âYou donât have to,â he said.
âI know.â
 Egill closed his eyes for a moment as TorbjÜrn finished his pass, leaning back against the washbasin.
âYouâre⌠A very strong man,â TorbjĂśrn mumbled after a moment, tilting Einarâs head with his warm hand and carefully running the razor over his jaw, his neck. âBut if yâcanât be sometimes, âs no reason to think less âf yourself. I want to take care of you, Egill.â
Egill breathed a curse, voice catching when he tried to speak. TorbjĂśrn shushed him. He ran a damp cloth over Egillâs skin, and Egill opened his eyes.
âThe only person whoâs taken care of me is Einar,â he said, meeting TorbjĂśrnâs icy blue eyes, steady on his face. âI donât⌠Want that.â
âYouâre not my brother.â
Egill made a noise in the back of his throat and reached for the shaving soap and brush.
âTurn around.â
Without a word, TorbjĂśrn did, leaning on the edge of the washbasin in a slouch so Egill could easily reach his face. Itâd been a long time since Egill had shaved anyone elseâand itâd only happened with Einar, and, once upon a time, his father, whoâd mostly done it to teach him. He willed his hands to stop shaking, certain heâd cut TorbjĂśrn despite his stave if he didnât.
His shirtâTorbjĂśrnâs shirtâslipped down his shoulder. He saw TorbjĂśrn gaze at his tattooed skin.
âTheyâre for protection,â he said, as he brushed shaving soap over his beard. âAnd to make me stronger.â
Egill was now standing between the other manâs long legs. He put the brush down and picked up the razor. TorbjĂśrn tilted his head back.
âFuck,â Egill breathed. The trust. He knew that he would kill ten more men if he could protect TorbjĂśrn that way, even if it knocked him unconscious for a month. He raised the razor.
Egill was careful shaving him, listening to his breath as it sped a little, running his fingers over newly revealed skin when he rinsed the razor. TorbjĂśrnâs eyes closed, only opening again when Egill ran the damp cloth over his jaw and neck. They were dark, and Egill made another strangled noise. Trembling, he continued to run his fingers over TorbjĂśrnâs skin, over his faint freckles and the lines around his mouth.
âI want.â He swallowed. âI want to take care of you, too.â
âYou can,â TorbjĂśrn promised. âBe happy to let you.â
âYouâre not⌠My brother.â His breath caught when TorbjĂśrn touched his bare shoulder, running his large hand to the side of his neck. He must be able to feel how Egillâs heart was hammering, maybe even to feel his power thrum under his skin.
âDonât wanna be.â
âFuck,â Egill said once more, his body strung tight.
And then, he tugged at TorbjĂśrnâs face with both hands until he leaned over, and kissed him. He was immediately pulled closer, and wrapped his arms around the manâs neck, arching into him as their mouths met. It was not frantic but it was deep, and Egill could swear he felt a spark leap between them, something that felt like his powers surging into TorbjĂśrn. The man groaned, tilting his head into the kiss. His thighs spread around Egillâs hips, strong arms wrapped around him and almost lifting him off the floor.
It felt both safe and infinitely thrilling, and Egill did not want to stop. He wanted to stay here until he couldnât feel his lips, until he couldnât feel where his powers flowed from him into TorbjĂśrn.
When TorbjĂśrn did eventually pull back, his pale face was flushed and his expression dazed, and Egill could only think yes. He did that. His lips tingled.
âStay with us,â TorbjĂśrn whispered. âWith me.â
Egill didnât even really have to think about it. He realized that he hadnât thought of why they were going to Havenbridge in days now.
âI wonât go into the mountains,â he said. Never again.
âI wonât make you.â
âYouâreâŚâ Egill shuffled, looking down at TorbjĂśrnâs chest, hidden beneath that nice blue vest. âYouâre a good man.â
âHope so.â His fingers swept underneath Egillâs shirt, seemingly absentmindedly; he widened his eyes when Egill softly gasped.
âBut if you donât want to be for a whileâŚâ
Blue eyes swept over his exposed collarbones, and TorbjĂśrnâs whole hand pressed underneath Egillâs shirt.
âIâd be happy to help.â
TorbjĂśrn kissed him again, hungrily, Egill pressing him against the edge of the washbasin, the whole length of their chests touching.
âHey! You folks gettinâ busy in there?â yelled Søren, outside the washroom door.
âGo away!â Egill shouted back, and TorbjĂśrn seemed to choke, face going even redder.
âJust sayinâ. Weâre invited for dinner with the Baron, now youâre awake. Be presentable in a half an hour.â
Egill looked down at his messy, too-large shirt, TorbjĂśrnâs hand rucking it up.
âUh.â
âLet me, hm.â TorbjĂśrn cleared his throat. âLet me go check with the launderer.â
Before he left, he ducked down and kissed Egill again, and Egill saw him smile as he walked away.
Søren, at dinner, seemed very amused. He and TorbjĂśrn also seemed to be very well-versed in etiquette, which Egill wondered at. There was obviously a lot he didnât yet know about the cousinsâ history, but he would have time to learn, now.
As they turned in for the night, he debated going into TorbjĂśrnâs room, but he neednât have bothered; there was, after about fifteen minutes, a knock at his door.
ââS me.â
âCome in.â
TorbjĂśrn was just in his undergarments, and Egillâs mouth went dry as he finally got the chance to openly gaze at the impressive figure the man cut in the low light. He made room for him on the bed, still on top of the covers, but TorbjĂśrn didnât sit. Instead, he leaned over to kiss Egill, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Egill gripped his short hair, arching up.
âGonna take care of you,â TorbjĂśrn rumbled against his lips.
âOhâplease.â
They ended up with TorbjĂśrn sitting against the headboard, Egill kneeling over his impressive thighs. They had both removed their shirts but nothing more. There was no need to hurry, and there was enough to explore already, just like this. TorbjĂśrn had, for example, kissed Egillâs neck, touched his chest with careful fingers, making his heart skip multiple beats.
âDâyou do these yourself?â he was asking now, tracing the slightly raised skin of the tattooed stave that protected Egill from small fires.
âEinar. I donât know how, or IâdâIâdâŚâ He traced invisible lines into TorbjĂśrnâs skin. âYou and Søren both.â
He hummed, consideringly. âDoes the person who does them have to be⌠Like you?â
âNo, my fatherâs were made by my mother.â
âThe man in Havenbridge, with the boat. He does tattoos.â
âThe man who named your horse TorbjĂśrn Jr?â Egill laughed, and was quite pleased to be pulled into a kiss to be stopped. He could get used to that.
The door burst open.
âHey, EgillâJesus Christ, I shouldâve knocked!â Søren yelped.
âSøren!â TorbjĂśrn boomed, certainly loud enough to wake the whole household, but for some reason, Egill could only continue laughing. He hid his face in his hands, shaking.
TorbjĂśrn huffed.
âWhatâre you doing here?â he asked Søren.
âIt was⌠Quiet. I can go.â
Egill looked at Søren, who clasped the back of his neck, and at TorbjÜrn, who looked unimpressed but somehow fond.
âYou can stay,â he said, climbing off TorbjĂśrnâs legs to sit next to him instead.
âOkay!â Coming closer, Søren widened his eyes when he looked at Egill. âWow, thatâs some ink! Is that⌠Magic?â
Egill nodded.
âWow,â he repeated. Søren was also in his undergarments, and sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed. His hair was in disarray. âYou cominâ along with us now?â
âHe is,â TorbjĂśrn confirmed, the fondness now creeping into his voice. Egill ducked his head, smiling down at his hands in his lap.
âGlad to hear it. Not goinâ down to Havenbridge anymore, then?â
âNo, we are,â TorbjĂśrn said.
âOh?â
Egill leaned into his side, touching a hand to his chest.
For the Spotify wrapped requests, I was asked for #7 with HK/Nor, so here it is! And someone's dead in a fantasy setting again, I regret to inform you! It's a risk you run with my taste in music, haha :^) Although this is a slightly more modern fantasy setting, sort of turn of the century. It felt like it didn't make much sense to put HK in the middle ages. Also, ponytail HK makes a reappearance after like ten years! I'm trying something with the timeline here, bc I guess fics inspired by music lend themselves to weird ones? Anyway, non-linear/backwards plot stuff is happening! Hope you like it, egg friend <3
Send a number 1-100 and a ship/character and I'll write something inspired by the corresponding song from my most listened in 2025 :)
.
Hiding In The Light
pairing/characters: Hong Kong (Leon)/Norway (Einar), Iceland (Egill), Taiwan (Mei), China (Yao)
words: 7070
summary:
They only got to spend five nights together, before Leon had to watch Einar burn.
.
now
Leon woke to shouts, and to something covering his body. He scrambled into a sitting position, but had no time to take in what was happening before there was more noise, indistinct yelling and the thumping of hooves on mossy ground, and something larger came crashing down on him. The tent, he understood, muffling a shout that got lost in the din. Where was Einar? He was supposed to be here beside him, unlessâŚ
Theyâd found him, just as heâd said they would.
Leon struggled to extricate himself from the heavy canvas of the tent and from the other fabric, which he realized was Einarâs heavy coat. By the time he finally crawled out, it was too late. The small camp was overturned and the sounds were fading away, echoing distantly on the mountainside. He was left alone, clutching the familiar coat.
So, that was it, then. He would never spend more than five nights in Einarâs company. The town had ripped him away, after everything Einar had done for them. Everything Leon had done.
Setting his jaw, he swung the coat, which was much too large for him and nearly dragged across the ground, around his shoulders, and began to make his way through the forest.
.
V
It startled Einar when he heard footsteps approaching his camp. Were the sheriffâs men already here? Had Egill come back for some reason? He stood as a figure stepped out of the woods, into the clearing. Familiar golden eyes glinted in the low light of dusk, lit only by his small cooking fire.
âLeon,â he breathed, sagging with relief and then immediately tensing up again. âWhat are you doing here?â
Leon stopped on the other side of the fire and looked up at him, beautiful face set in determination. He didnât reply.
âYou shouldnât be here,â Einar whispered, even as he felt himself move close to him, drawn by some inexorable force, the same one that had drawn them together in the first place. Swallowing heavily, he touched Leonâs jaw, following its sharp line. The manâs eyes closed, his thick brow furrowing.
âYou shouldnât,â Einar repeated. Then, he leaned down and kissed him, cradling his face with both hands. Leon arched into him. He frantically tugged at his coat, slid his hands around Einarâs waist.
âWhere else should I be?â he whispered back, mostly against his lips.
âAnywhere but here, Leon. Anywhere.â
âItâs too late for that now.â
Einar swore, pulling back to look down at him. He was carrying no supplies and was only wearing his normal clothes, nothing fit for travel. He wasnât going anywhere.
âIf they find you here with meââ
âIâm not leaving. Why are you still here, Einar?â
âThereâs no way out for me.â Heâd looked, of course, but heâd have to cross the river to get out of Goldcrest and the townsfolk were well aware of that, patrolling up and down the steep banks even now, in the dark, armed with lanterns and weapons. Somewhere, Einar had always known heâd end up this way.
âThen, there is no way out for me, either,â Leon said. Eyebrows jumping, he plucked at Einarâs vest. âI thought they might listen to me, maybe to Uncle Yao, but all they see is something they donât understand. Uncle always⌠Prevented that.â
Einar caught his wrist, slid his fingers up over his hand so they tangled with Leonâs.
âYou told me, once, that you were different. That I should not fall for someone like you.â He leaned close again, hair falling around both of their faces, and whispered, âThatâs the first time someone has told me that. I could say the same thing. I should have.â
âItâs hard to miss. And it wouldnât have stopped me, Einar.â
âI know. It didnât stop me, after all.â Einar kissed him again, softly and sadly, while he pressed Leonâs hand over his heart.
âLet me stay,â Leon breathed.
Einar could feel his resolve crumbling. Heâd planned to spend this last night alone, knowing that his brother escaped before things got really bad, that Leon was safe in his familyâs inn, but now that he was here, he couldnât let him go.
âWhen they find me, you hide,â he said. âPlease, Leon. I will not have you die for me.â
There was a glint in his light eyes when he looked up. Something cold that made Einar shiver, though it wasnât directed at him.
âIâll make them regret it, Einar. I swear.â He moved his hands back to the front of his vest and pulled, slamming their mouths back together. Einar heard himself make a desperate sort of noise, almost a sob, as he entwined their bodies. He wound his hands through Leonâs smooth hair, tugging the long strands loose of his hair tie, while the manâs fingers fumbled with the buttons on his vest and shirt until they brushed his skin.
With a gasp, Einar pulled back. He closed his eyes when Leon laid his hand back over his heart, where black lines of protection were inked into his skin.
âCome,â he whispered, taking a step back towards his little tent. Egill, his brother, had taken most of their supplies, as Einar would have no use for them, but he hardly needed two tents. With a wave of his hand, he extinguished the cooking fire, so that only his lantern was left, the flickering golden light shining gently over both of them.
The magical protections heâd laid over the clearing still held, but would not work against people looking hard enoughâin the morning, they would come. Leon followed him into the tent, and they tumbled down.
.
now
By the time Leon arrived at his familyâs inn, having avoided the main road out of an abundance of caution, the only person there was Mei. His sister was pacing back and forth in the dining hall, but rushed over when he entered. She threw her arms around his neck, startling him.
âMei?â He found that his voice was raspy, as if he hadnât spoken in days. Clearing her throat, she stepped back and folded her hands into the hem of her jacket.
âUncleâs gone into town believing heâll have to save you from the gallows, Leon,â she hissed. âYourâyour man was marched in in chains and you were nowhere to be found!â
âIâm here,â Leon said, unnecessarily.
âI can see that!â She slapped his arm, then seemed to take in his overlarge coat. Her voice went uncharacteristically soft. âOh, Leon, Iâm sorry that this happened. IâI know he means a lot to you.â
That was certainly a change of tune.
âI want to goââ
âUncle will kill me if I let you go into town.â
âMei, please,â he whispered. âI should be there, this is all because of me.â
âOh, Leon,â she said again, now reaching for him and combing her fingers through his unbound hair. He let her, closing his eyes tightly to stop the tears from falling. From somewhere in the deep pockets of her skirt, Mei unearthed a comb and a hair tie and pulled his hair back.
When she was finished with that, she straightened his vest and adjusted the collar of his shirt.
âI wonât tell Uncle you were here,â she said, meeting his eye. âYou must have gone straight into town from wherever you were.â
âThank you,â he breathed, embracing her.
âBe careful,â she said, and stood there while he hurried off.
.
IV
âThis isnât the first time this has happened,â Einar told his brother as they walked through Goldcrestâs main street, Egill trailing behind as if heâd prefer not to be seen with him. As well he probably shouldnât.
âThen, why are we still here?â he snapped, while doing a little hop over a puddle to catch up.
âYouâre free to leave, Egill.â
âThat is not what I asked. Where are we going?â
âIâm going to the Laurel.â
âI think that answers both of my questions,â Egill muttered.
Einar couldnât deny that it did.
âIâm going to do⌠Something else,â Egill continued. They halted in front of the townâs small church, and he opened his mouth as if to say heâd go in there, before grimacing. âIâll goâŚâ
âItâs alright.â Einar was somewhat amused despite himself. âIf thereâs any trouble, you take the stagecoach and wait for meââ He kept speaking over his brotherâs protestingâ âAt the cabin near the old mine at Kaiâs Bend. Even if I canât come, there will be other people you can trust.â
For a long moment, Egill just stared at the muddy ground between their boots, his jaw clenched. On the other side of the road, there was a cluster of people, whispering conspicuously.
âIs he really worth all that?â Egill asked in a strangled undertone. More than me, is what he didnât say but what Einar heard anyway. Glancing at the group of strangers, he quickly grasped his brotherâs shoulder.
âI feel it.â
Egill sighed, nodding. He would, Einar sincerely hoped, understand one day. Find that person for himself. Someone who wasnât Einar, who would love him beyond the love of a sibling.
They parted ways. It was somewhat of a relief that the busybodies trailed after Einar, leaving Egill alone. Heâd always done the more obvious things himself, precisely for this reason. They just usually didnât stick around long enough for people to realize that the way they were helping their town wasnât natural, at least to them. And that was beside the factor of what had happened at the Silver Laurel.
One of the people across the street suddenly shouted, âWe know what you are!â
Einar ignored the man, tugging his hat low over his eyes.
âThe Li boy may be under your spell, but this town knows about people like you!â
âPeople like me,â Einar muttered. That seemed unlikely, if for no other reason than that Einar himself only knew of three others like him, and one of them was his brother. He pushed his hand into the pocket of his coat, closing his fingers around a stone inside.
When the man stepped closer threateningly, fingering his holster, Einar glanced his way, squeezed the stone, and watched with satisfaction as he slipped on a sudden patch of ice in the road where before there had only been a puddle. His hat flew off, and he yelled. A woman gasped, clasping her hands over her mouth and staring across the road at Einar.
Although he was tempted to ask whether sheâd never seen ice beforeâcertainly, though it was early spring, they were high up enough that this wasnât uncommonâEinar didnât linger while the fallen man struggled to his feet.
Luckily, it seemed that the townspeople were too stunned to follow him. Or too wary of going against Leonâs family. It was difficult not to notice the sway his uncle had in town; they seemed to think of him as a protector.
The Silver Laurel wasnât busy yet, and Leon, who was behind the bar cleaning dishes, smiled when he saw Einar. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair tied back. Sitting on a barstool, Einar watched him finish his work. With the dishes put away, Leon came over and leaned forward.
âHow are you?â Einar asked. He reached across the polished wood of the bar to quickly touch his cheek.
âFine,â Leon replied, glancing at the few patrons, who were not paying attention to them. Absently, and regrettably, he started to roll his sleeves down. Einar reached for his arm to button up the cuff.
âThere have beenâŚâ Leon swallowed when Einarâs fingers brushed over his wrist. âThere have been rumors in town. Mei tries to keep track of all that. Uncle likes to know.â
âIâve noticed,â Einar replied softly, buttoning the other cuff. âItâs not the first time that has happened around me. People fear things they donât understand. I just hope it doesnât affect you.â
âNot with Uncle Yao around.â Leon bit his lip. âI donât understand. Youâve brought us nothing but good.â
âTell that to the men who hurt you.â
He ducked his head, touching his cheek.
âWill you come out with me?â Einar asked.
âDo you have more to show me?â Leon was obviously trying for a smooth tone, but the nervous wriggling of his thick brows betrayed him. Einar leaned further over the bar and lowered his voice to reply.
âWhatever you want to see, Leon Li.â
He swallowed, then nodded.
Just as heâd hurried off behind the bar to inform his sister, the batwing doors swung back open and admitted the same group of people who had been harassing Einar. Frowning, Einar grabbed a wooden coaster and plucked a graphite stick from behind the bar to draw on it. The intricate lines came to him easily, as they always had.
By the time the man heâd made fall reached him, he had hopped off his barstool. The man was shorter than him, but broader.
âYour kind is not welcome here,â the man said.
âMy kind?â Out of the corner of his eye, Einar saw Mei poke her head out and her eyes widen.
âYourâyour spells, the things you summon. Itâs not natural.â There it was.
âYou donât like that I feed your children? That I heal your sick?â
âAnd whatever youâve done to Leon Liââ He took a threatening step closer, but before Einar could channel his power into the coaster, the man stopped so abruptly that his hat nearly flew off again. He made a confused noise.
âI assure you,â a voice came from behind the group, icy cold, âthat my nephew is not bewitched, nor am I.â
âMr Yao,â the man started, sweating. The rest of the group appeared to be shrinking in on themselves.
âYou will not harass my patrons. I decide who stays at the Laurel.â Yaoâs tone brooked no argument, and Einar could swear he saw the air around the small man shimmer.
âButââ Impressively, the man tried to protest.
âYou will leave.â
Lips twitching into a sneer, the man turned and marched to the doors, where he turned to yell, âThe sheriff will listen to us! The Silver Laurel doesnât rule Goldcrest!â
Yao folded his arms and frowned up at Einar.
âThank you,â Einar said.
He shook his head, his eyesâso similar to Leonâsâzipping over him.
âYouâre going to break his heart one way or another, but Iâd prefer if it took a while longer.â
âI donât intend to,â Einar told him softly. He just huffed, shaking his head again.
âUncle!â Leon was hurrying over. âEinar, are you alright?â
âI am, thanks to your uncle.â
Leon looked startled at that. Yao cleared his throat, pulled his hand out of his pocket, and turned on his heel to leave. Einar reached for Leon, gently holding his shoulder, and the man looked up.
âDo youâwant to come up to my room?â he asked.
âI would love to.â It would probably be better not to leave the inn yet, anyway, but Einar would take any time he could spend with Leon.
While, downstairs, the Silver Laurel filled up over the course of the evening, Einar and Leon took advantage of Leonâs bed, finally able to do whatever they wanted. Leon traced all over Einarâs tattoos, asking about their meaning and trying to decipher the magic staves. When Einar, hanging off the bed so as to not lose any of his warmth, fished the coaster out of his coat pocket, Leon watched with avid attention.
âI think that would beâŚâ With a concentrated frown, he used some graphite to scribble lines on some paper, resolving into an elegant but spiky symbol like the ones Einar had seen on his uncleâs dishes. He blinked, and said, âI donât know what that means.â
âMaybe your uncle will know. Mine does this.â Einar folded his hand over the coaster, and with some effort, the wood burst into a bright little flame that he could hold in the palm of his hand. Heâd just wanted to startle the rude man. Leon stared at it, his eyes nearly as light as the fire.
âYouâre amazing,â he breathed, hovering a hand over the flame.
Einar couldnât hold it for long, and when it burned out, Leon sprang forward to press him down on his bed, his long hair falling down while he kissed him. Einar groaned, grasping at his warm body.
âStay the night, Einar,â the man whispered against his neck. âStay with me.â
âFor as long as I can,â Einar promised, and let himself get lost in Leon.
.
now
âUncle!â Leon startled. He hadnât spotted his uncle until the man suddenly appeared from between the pharmacy and general store as he was trying to make his way through the crowd.
âLeon, you shouldnât be here,â he said, dragging him into the shadows.
âPeople keep telling me that. They wonât do anything to our familyââ
âNot because of that.â His uncle sighed, appearing suddenly older and more tired than Leon had ever seen him. âYou shouldnât have to go through this. To watch someone you care about burn. Iâd hopedâŚâ
âBurn?â Leon whispered, breath catching in his throat. He thought of the bright flame Einar had captured, just a few days ago, flickering over the sharp angles of his face, and found it too horrifyingly easy to imagine it consuming him. âMei saidâthe gallowsââ
âIâm sorry, Leon. And old method for old magic, theyâre saying.â
âNoâplease, uncle, there must be something you can do.â Tears were burning in Leonâs eyes. He hadnât cried in front of his uncle since the day his parents died, but there was a sympathetic light in Yaoâs face now that he hadnât seen even then.
He didnât reply, just shook his head.
âI need to stay here, uncle. I canât leave him.â
âI know.â Leonâs uncle sighed, then rummaged through his bag and pulled out a thin sheet of metal, maybe once part of a bucket. Etched into the surface was the symbol they used to make the special dishware. He pressed it into Leonâs hand.
âWhat is this?â
âI think youâll realize. Someone needs to protect this town from itself. Stay hidden, Leon. They might not mean to harm you, but they could.â He walked briskly away before Leon could ask anything else.
Baffled, he glanced down at the metal, then put it in the pocket of Einarâs coat, where it clinked against one of his engraved stones. In the street, the angry crowd clamored. Leon eyed the pharmacy, and decided he would try to climb on the roof.
.
III
Einar was just finishing up placing magic staves around a field to help protect the farmerâs crops from inclement weather and rot, when he heard a commotion somewhere down the road. Voices echoed off the mountainside. Putting his knife away, he decided to see if he could help.
What else was his purpose in coming here, after all?
He had expected, maybe, to interrupt a robbery, or just a dispute between some townsfolk, but what he found instead startled him. At a bend in the winding road, just down from the stagecoach stop, there were two men crowded close to a familiar, small figure in red. Leon was backed up into the steep, rocky side of the road while one man, with a large mustache, was pointing an accusing finger at him and the other one, whose hat was comically large, continued to shout over his protests.
âYou had to have known!â he screamed. âYou people know everything, itâs what you do!â
Furious, Einar dug one of his stave-stones from his pocket. Leon had been nothing but kind to him and Egillâeven when Egill was being sour. Heâd shown Einar around Goldcrest, listened to Einarâs stories and was merely curious about the things he could do. Einar often recalled how heâd looked under starlight when he went to sleep at his and Egillâs little camp, and couldnât deny he wanted to see more of him than these casual meetings allowed.
Stone in hand, he stepped out into the road. One man now gripped Leonâs shoulders harshly, both of them towering over him, both of them armed with pistols.
âYou let him spin his lies to you!â yelled the man. âOr both of them, huh? Is that what youââ
âIs there a problem?â Einar interrupted sharply.
âSpeak of the devil!â
 Leonâs golden eyes widened while the man holding him shoved him in front of himself as if to use him as a human shield. A cowardly move. A sharp anger flared in Einarâs body. The devil. That wasnât a first, but Leon didnât deserve to be dragged into that.
âPlease, let him go,â he said, very calmly.
âOr what?â the man sneered. And then, without warning, he turned and swung at Leon.
Before heâd even hit him, Einarâs power surged, and channeled through the stone, it rang out like a gunshot. It hadnât often been so explosive before. Just as the manâs fist impacted Leonâs cheekbone, he abruptly doubled over, falling to his knees, while the other one cried out and reeled backwards, showing Leon away in horror.
Obviously disoriented, Leon stumbled, and though Einar rushed over, he couldnât prevent him from pitching into the rocky ditch, tumbling head over heels. Einar hurried after him, leaving his attackers retching on the road behind him.
Luckily, Leon hadnât further hit his head, but his nice red shirt was ripped at both sleeves and his pants were scuffed, blood seeping through one leg.
âIâm sorry,â Einar muttered, anxiously kneeling.
âSorry? You saved meâow, god.â Leon hissed when he tried to stand. Despite the exhaustion washing over him, Einar helped him to his feet. Leon stared at the road.
âWill theyâŚâ He didnât finish.
âTheyâll survive. They probably wonât remember,â Einar said curtly.
âOh.â Leonâs cheek was bleeding too, and he winced when he put his weight on his foot. Einar bent down to get the manâs arm over his shoulders.
âI can⌠Help you,â he said, assisting him back to the road. Their significant height difference made the position awkward, and Leon was leaning heavily against him. With a deep breath, Einar ducked down and scooped him up, smiling when he yelped.
âEinar!â His free hand immediately grasped at his vest, and he tucked his head against Einarâs shoulder. He was just as easy to carry as Einar had imagined.
âIâm taking you to camp.â
It wasnât that far, just up the slope and hidden between some tall cliffsidesâmade extra hidden by some strategically placed staves by both Einar and his brother. Egill was, in fact, present, writing in his journal while sat on a rock.
âWhatâsâŚâ He stood abruptly. âHim again? What the hell happened?â
Einar set Leon down under the overhang of one cliff.
âIgnorance,â he replied.
âThatâsâEinar, seriously?â Egill asked, meeting his eye over Leonâs head, while Einar ghosted his fingers over the manâs leg. âIâm going to check what damage youâve done. I told you we shouldâve left.â
Leon frowned as Egill stalked off, then hissed when Einar pushed his pant leg up.
âItâs okay,â he said. âUncle has all kinds of healing herbs.â
âI got no doubt about that,â Einar said with wry amusement. Again, he dug through his pockets, pulling out the last of his paper and some graphite. âBut I owe you this much, Leon.â
He drew a stave while the man watched.
âMost people will tell you itâs all nonsense, the old powers of the world.â
âI donât believe that.â
âNo, I suppose you wouldnât.â Kneeling on one leg, Einar closed his eyes and drew on the power within himself until the paper felt warm in his hand, and he pressed it gently to Leonâs bleeding leg. The man gasped as the wound closed, seeming to go through the process of healing in just a minute. Einar knew it felt very odd, and held his other knee in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, squeezing softly.
âEinar,â Leon gasped again, curiously light eyes wide above his bruised cheekbone.
Without a word, Einar reached up and pressed his other piece of paper to that wound, leaning up between his legs. Luckily, this one was less deep and took less out of him. When the paper fell away, curling in on itself, Leonâs cheek was unblemished, though red rose under the skin when Einar swept his fingers over it softly. In the light of dusk, his eyes were a dark gold, and the delicate angles of his face were sharply illuminated.
Einarâs other hand slid up his thigh, and Leonâs breath sped up.
âThey think⌠You know they thought youâve been seducing me,â he whispered, small hand hovering over Einarâs face.
âAm I?â Or are you, Einar thought.
Leonâs fingertips pressed against his jaw. He leaned very close, until all Einar could see was that blazing gold.
âYes,â he breathed. Einar heard himself make a noise deep in his throat as they both pressed forward so their lips touched, a spark leaping between them. He tilted his head and slid his hand into Leonâs silky hair, rising up on his knees to press them together. All his exhaustion seemed to melt away as they kissed, Leonâs touch searing through him like magic.
âAnd I donâtâknow why,â Leon gasped between kisses. âWhy me?â
âWhy not you? Thereâs a power in you, Leon,â Einar breathed into him. âI wanna know it. I wanna know you.â
That made him curse softly and fist both hands into his collar, pulling him even closer.
âI should, I should go. Mei will worry.â
âI think Egill will carry the message.â
âOh.â Leon looked at Einar. âYou look tired.â
âIt takes a lot out of me.â
He bit his lip. âTell me about it? I want to know you, too.â
Einar did just that. Told him about his and Egillâs travels, trying to help, trying to put this strange gift his family had to good use and being misunderstood at many turns.
âYouâre a better person than me,â Leon said, now carding his fingers through Einarâs hair as he rested his head against his thigh, both of them now in Einarâs open tent. Leonâs vest was unbuttoned, and Einar had draped his coat over himself. The evening was cold.
âMaybe,â he said. âMaybe, Iâm worse in a different way. Egill would probably agree.â
That wasnât actually true; Einar knew his brother would defend him fiercely if needed. He just didnât know if it was always for the right reasons. Leon huffed a laugh.
âYeah, so would Mei.â
They dozed off; Einar never heard Egill return.
.
now
They had actually built a pyre where the gallows usually were, as if theyâd gone back to the middle ages. Leon watched with horror from the rooftop while Einar was finally marched out of the sheriffâs office, hands bound behind his back and wavy blond hair disheveled. His expression was impassive, but his dark eyes zipped anxiously over the crowd.
The crowd that jeered as the sheriff marched him to the yet unlit pyre, as if Einar hadnât laid protections on their fields and houses, hadnât healed their livestock and made sure their food stayed fresh, all without expecting anything in return. Leon touched his cheek, feeling the echo of the manâs power, and of his careful touches.
Maybe, his family had been doing the wrong thing, protecting Goldcrest; they had evidently decided that anyone who was different, had to go.
Once Einar had been bound to the pole in the middle of the pyre, which seemed to be part of the gallowsâ structure, the crowd quieted down a little. The sheriff gestured. This wasnât the whole town, Leon could see. It couldnât be. He tried to memorize the faces, determined to doâsomething.
âAny last words from the guilty?â asked the sheriff.
For a moment, it seemed as though Einar wouldnât speak, and the man bearing a torch stepped menacingly close. Then, he opened his mouth, and his deep, smooth voice reverberated across the square.
âYou fear what you donât know, and blame me for things you donât understand.â He looked around again, and Leon was sure he saw those dark blue eyes linger on him for just a moment, a warmth suffusing him. âBut I assure you, you will regret it. A poison will spread over you as it spread over your thoughts.â
âThatâs enough!â the man with the torch barked, and he stepped forward once more.
âYour land will go sour,â Einar said, and he looked up at Leon before smoke obscured him from view.
Leon turned away.
.
II
âWhat are you doing?â
Einar nearly jumped at the curious voice at his shoulder, and turned, looking down.
âSorry, didnât mean to startle you,â said the small man standing next to him in the general store, looking unapologetic.
âLeon Li, isnât it? From the Silver Laurel.â
âThatâs right.â He cleared his throat. âI hadnât expected you to stay in Goldcrest. Do you work here now?â
âI like to help out.â Einar carefully replaced the shelf he had removed at the ownerâs request back in the display, positioning it so none of his careful carving was visible. The food would hold much better now.
âThatâs⌠Admirable. Einar, right?â
âYes. Very impressive, you must see a lot of people.â Einar hoped that meant he had left some kind of impression on the young man; heâd left one on Einar. Leon shrugged awkwardly, pushing a long strand of hair out of his face.
âNot so many. We donât really get that many visitors up here. Locals keep the Laurel going.â
Einar thought that sounded like a bit of an oversimplification, given what had happened to him and Egill, and he raised his eyebrows at Leon, who wriggled his own in return, indecipherably. Despite himself, Einar smiled. There was something very intriguing about Leon Li.
âMaybe, seeing as Iâm such a rarity, you could show me around town.â
Leonâs light brown eyes narrowed. Einar blinked innocently.
âI certainly could. Whereâs your brother?â
âAround, somewhere.â
A hum. âAre you done here?â
Einar nodded, and he followed Leon out of the store. Heâd been promised he could come pick up supplies later, and was happy to spend some time with this odd man for now.
The town of Goldcrest was small but bustling, with horses and some wagons passing on the street, people talking as they went into the local pub.
âDonât go there,â Leon warned as they passed it, and Einar couldnât help but laugh, which made him smile. âIâm serious. They dilute everything.â
âGood to know. Iâm sure you would never do anything to tamper with your guestsâ food.â
Leon grimaced, but Einar just kept smiling serenely.
They wandered through town. People kept greeting Leon, asking how his family were. Einar slowly built a picture in his head of just how things worked around here, and Leon and his family were obviously an important part of it.
âSo you just⌠Travel?â the man asked him. âThat must be nice.â
âSometimes.â
âHm.â He glanced up through dark lashes. âWhere are you staying if not at the Laurel? Thereâs nowhere else.â
âWell, let me show you something.â
Before Einar could lead Leon out of town, they did run into Egill, who had a new coat, and who narrowed his eyes at Leon.
âWeâre not going back to the inn, are we?â he asked Einar suspiciously, stepping very close to whisper the question. Einar clasped his arm, shaking his head.
âNice coat,â he said.
âWhere are you taking him?â
âItâs not likeâŚâ Einar took a deep breath. âHeâs intriguing.â
âI bet.â Egill pressed his lips into a thin line, looking up at him. âThere are farmers that need staves of protection.â
Einar nodded. Leon, who had been standing quietly, cleared his throat.
âShould I go?â
âBe careful,â Egill said, and then he turned and walked into town, dodging a woman on a horse. Einar shook his head.
âHeâs, uh.â Leon didnât finish.
âWeâre all we have,â Einar said. He worried about Egill sometimes.
âI know what thatâs like.â
âI suppose you would.â
They walked up the mountainside, into the dense forest surrounding the town and to Einarâs and Egillâs little camp. It wasnât much; his and Egillâs tents, a small fire under an overhang of rock. Egill had carefully painted a magic stave on the rock to prevent it falling and crushing them both to death. He was better with stones. Although Leon definitely noticed the black marks, he didnât ask about them.
Instead, he asked where Einar had been before, listened to him talk about the sea, and told him about his life in this mountain town in return, though he barely mentioned his family. When he tugged the red hair tie out of his dark hair, it spilled around his shoulders like an inkstain, making Einar wonder whether it would feel as smooth as it looked. When he smiled, his eyes glittered like gold. His features were delicate but sharp, except for his eyebrows, which jumped wildly as if to hint at his thoughts.
They ate canned beans warmed over the fire, which wasnât much, but Leon didnât complain. Egill returned and went straight into his tent.
âDonât mind him,â said Einar. âThis⌠This has been nice.â
âYes,â Leon agreed softly. âIâd be happy to show you more of town. Uh, both of you.â
âIâll be sure to ask. Iâm afraid I got nothing much to show you, though.â He tilted his head and looked at the sky, which was now dark and dotted with stars. âYou ever heard the story of the White Mountain?â
âI donât think so.â
âItâs up there.â Einar scooted closer to point. âSee that bright star over the pine tree?â
Leon squinted up, his head brushing Einarâs shoulder. He nodded.
âThatâs the peak. And down there, you can see the lovers.â
It was a story like many others, of forbidden love, two families who hated each other and the mountain that divided the lovers. Einar had told it many times, though he tried not to think too hard about why that one, out of all the legends he knew, had come to mind.
By the time he had finished, Leon was nodding off, and he startled awake when Einar gently shook his shoulder. On instinct, it seemed, he grasped Einarâs coat, and Einar curved a hand around the back of his neck.
âI should go home,â the man mumbled.
âYou can stay.â
âI shouldnât, I⌠Einar, you should know, my family, weâreâŚâ He swallowed, still holding his coat. âWeâre different, in some ways. You shouldnâtâŚâ
He didnât finish, but Einar could imagine, here in the quiet, after the story heâd just told.
âYouâre not your family,â he said softly.
âMaybe.â He yawned. âI really should go.â
âYou can stay in my tent, I can share with my brother. Itâs too dark to go down the mountain.â
âOkay,â Leon acquiesced, untangling himself.
When Einar quietly got into Egillâs tent, Egill turned to his back to face him.
âYouâre a fool, Einar,â he mumbled.
âPerhaps. Time will tell.â He ran his hand through Egillâs hair, smiling when he huffed and turned over, making room for him.
Different in some ways⌠It wasnât like the two of them were so normal.
.
now
After nearly falling off the roof in his hurry to get away, Leon wandered aimlessly through the forest around town, Einarâs coat dragging on the ground behind as he sagged.
Eventually, he came back to the edge of some farmland, and followed a fence until he found a post with a familiar stave carved into the wood. Protection. He looked at the flourishing crops, seething. They certainly didnât deserveâ
Leonâs fingers closed around the piece of metal his uncle had given him, and he felt it heat under his touch. He pulled it out. Stared at the symbol heâd seen so often.
Now, remembering Einarâs final words, it suddenly made sense. It was him. It was his job to carry out his final wish.
The piece of metal became white hot in his hand, but he couldnât feel it. All he could feel was power, and all he could read was what heâd known all along. Poison.
.
I
The inn looked welcoming against the darkness, and Einar could hear his brother sigh in relief as the two of them ascended the few steps to the batwing doors.
Inside, there was lively music coming from a worn-down piano in a corner, and plenty of people talking, eating and drinking. An older man was behind the bar, short and with long black hair pulled back from his face. Einar went over to him while his brother hung back, surveying the dining hall.
âHow can I help you?â the man asked brusquely, eyeing Einarâs pack. âTraveler?â
âYes, sir, my brother and I would like a room for the night.â
âCertainly. What brings you to town?â
âWhatever is needed,â Einar replied. The man narrowed his light brown eyes but nodded.
âWill you be having dinner? It can be brought up to your room, and a bath can also be arranged.â
âYes, please.â
âGood.â Turning, the man shouted, âLeon! Guests!â
From behind the bar came a younger man, about Egillâs age, just as small, his expression nearly bored.
âYes, uncle.â He looked up at Einar, thick eyebrows jumping once. âWelcome to the Silver Laurel, my name is Leon Li.â
âEinar,â said Einar. âAnd my brother, Egill.â
Egill held up a hand when he gestured over, and Leon Li nodded. He led them up the stairs to a modest room at the end of the hallway.
âThe bath is downstairs, it will be ready soon,â he explained.
âThank you, Leon Li,â Einar told him, and his eyebrows quirked again, amusingly. Egill huffed a laugh.
âI will be back soon with dinner.â
Egill went down to take a bath immediately, which Einar couldnât blame him for. They didnât often venture into the mountains, and it was hard work getting all their belongings up the sometimes steep paths.
With a knock on the door, Leon Li brought in a tray of covered plates, which he set on the table.
âDish of the day is beef stew,â he said, brows twitching.
âThank you, Leon Li.â
âLeon,â he said. âMy uncle says youâve come to town to help?â
âIn any way we can.â Einar watched Leon bite his lip, teeth leaving indents in the skin.
He was well-dressed, his red shirt shimmering in the light of a gas lamp, and Einar suddenly felt self-conscious about his muddy coat. Heâd have to get it cleaned somewhere in town.
âIs it just you and your uncle?â he asked, taking the coat off and rolling his sleeves up, though not far enough that the black lines inked into his skin became visible.
âAnd my sister. And some staff, of course.â
âHm. Thank you for dinner, Leon.â
âYouâre welcome. If you need anything, you can find me down the hall.â
âIâll keep that in mind.â Einar watched him go, wondering. He turned to the dishes to lift one of the lids off. It smelled delicious. His stomach rumbled. Cautiously, he picked the bowl up, and spotted an elegant symbol painted on the underside that somehow tingled at his fingertips.
âThat smells good,â Egill said, stepping back into the room. Einar hummed as he put the bowl down. Something was going on here.
âWait,â he told his brother, and Egill did, grumpily, while Einar bent over his discarded coat and pulled out a thin brush. âWhereâs the ink?â
Egill retrieved it from his pack. Wetting the brush, Einar carefully drew a stave on the side of the bowl holding the stew, concentrating until he felt the tingle leave, the strange symbol losing its potency. He handed the brush to Egill and told him to copy his work. When his brother gasped, he knew heâd felt it too.
âDid they try to poison us?â
âSeems so.â Einar took a spoon and smelled the stew again. Still nice.
âAre you eating it?â Egill asked incredulously, although he looked longingly at the other bowl, his stomach also rumbling.
Einar put the spoon in his mouth. It was great, pleasantly spiced and distinctly un-poisoned now.
âOh, alright.â Egill ate the stew, and when he was done, he immediately went to sleep while Einar finally went down for a bath.
The warm water was blissful, and it was great to wash the dirt from his face. The streams up here in the mountains were freezing cold, not great for bathing.
To his amusement, he ran into Leon when he was done, and the young man looked flustered to see him in just his shirt and pants, his suspenders hanging down.
âThe stew was excellent,â Einar told him, watching him wince. What was the purpose of the poison? To kill them, to knock them out and rob them? Drive them out of town?
âThatâs good to hear. Is there anything else I can do for you?â He was composed now, which intrigued Einar. How did this polite young man get tangled up in something like that?
âNo, thank you.â
âGood.â He glanced over when two men, one with a large mustache and one wearing a very big hat, came into the hall.
âWhoâs this?â Mustache asked loudly, probably drunkenly. âNew faces in town? What does your uncle think of this, Li?â
Leonâs expression turned cold, and he shrugged disaffectedly. âYou know my uncle. As long as he gets paid.â
âThat is certainly true,â said Hat, voice low, shadowed eyes narrowing at Einar. The two men left. Einar blinked.
âDo you serve breakfast?â he asked casually.
âOhâsometimes, if the occasion arises.â
âI think Iâd like breakfast.â
Leon looked up at him, tucking his hair behind his ear. He opened, then closed his mouth. Nodded.
âIâll see to it.â
âGreat.â
Einar had an excellent nightâs sleep.
.
now, and forever
Everyone in Goldcrest knew one thing: the Silver Laurel protected the town, but if you wanted to live in peace, you better not cross any of the family that ran it. If you did, a poison would spread, and any semblance of peace would be gone forever.
How about, for the Spotify wrapped prompt thing, #99 and whatever femslash ship you'd like?
Thank you! I hope you're ready for a tiny fic about some very toxic ladies! So many interesting options, but in the end I went for the Bels. Bel², heh!
And by very toxic, I mean there's just straight up murder happening, so, warning for that :V I imagine, for some reason, that this takes place in the sixties.
Manon is Belgium & Nadzeya is Belarus :)
Send a number 1-100 and a ship/character and I'll write something inspired by the corresponding song from my most listened this year :)
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The Final Truth
Manon is smiling. Why is she smiling?
Itâs not a nice smile. Itâs sharp, twisting her red lips in ways Nadzeya has never seen before, and her beautiful green eyes are like shards of glass in her face. Nadzeya has always known that there is something cold underneath the surface of Manonâs good cheer, but it has never been directed at her. Itâs not supposed to be directed at her.
Sheâs not supposed to be smiling.
Nadzeya can hear her own heartbeat, thundering in her ears. Itâs surely not healthy for it to be that fast.
âManon?â she whispers. Her lips feel cold. Her voice wavers. It never wavers.
âIâm sorry, Nadzeya,â Manon replies. She does not sound sorry, and the smile twists further.
âWhat is this?â Why is Nadzeya so cold when her insides feel like they are burning? More importantly, why is Manon not cold?
âThis isâŚâ Manon reaches for her, and her fingers are scorching hot against Nadzeyaâs cheek. âThe end.â
âWhy?â Itâs all she can think to ask, while Manon curves her hot fingers around the back of her neck. Nadzeya tries to grasp her arm, but her fingers are quickly going numb, her body heavy. She accidentally scratches Manonâs pale skin. In the low, flickering light of the single lightbulb illuminating the basement, she seems almost statuesque, with her curled hair impeccable as ever, tucked into her headband. Her pearl earrings glisten like tears, but her eyes are dry.
âItâs too much, Nadzeya. It hurts too much.â
That is why they are here. Why they are both here. They were supposed to be together. Sheâs not supposed to be smiling.
Slowly, Manon lowers Nadzeya to the couch as her body grows heavier and heavier with each breath. Each shuddering breath. Itâs so cold. Nadzeya keeps trying to grab her, trying to pull her close like sheâs supposed to be. All this time theyâve been together, Manon has been warm, but not like this. Not this overwhelming heat. This sharp, malicious blaze of her smile. It hurts too much? What does that mean?
To Nadzeya, love has always hurt, and she thought it was that way for everyone for a long time. But for Manon, she has learned, it is soft. Soothing. No hidden truths, no twisted words. Until now. Because now, Nadzeya realizes as her eyes fight to stay open, she knows that it can hurt, and she canât take it.
âI will be fine,â Manon says, cupping Nadzeyaâs cheek. âIâve learned my lesson this time.â
This time? Nadzeya tries to speak, tries to ask if there have been others who were stupid enough to walk into this obvious web of lies as she did, but her throat is closing up. She canât feel her legs anymore. She canât feel anything anymore, except for the white-hot heat of Manonâs betrayal, captured in that smile. Those lovely red lips that drew her in with a bright grin across a crowded dance floor, now smiling as she takes her last breaths. The sparkling eyes that winked at her are now watching her struggle dispassionately. Was this always how it was going to end, or has Manon deluded herself into believing that sheâs looking for actual love? Will she, one day, find a woman whoâs good enough for her? Who is good enough for the world to see?
âWhy?â Nadzeya manages to rasp, again. She gets no reply other than a gentle shushing, like sheâs just trying to get to sleep after a bad dream. Sheâs told Manon about her nightmares, about the fears her youth instilled in her. Theyâve spent hours on the phone in the middle of the night, talking about nothing, or lying in bed, hidden from the world. But what does Nadzeya really know about Manon? How much does she actually understand about her life, about her past? Why has it never seemed important until now?
None of her questions will get answers, now. And maybe thatâs all there is to Manonâs smile; the knowledge that her secrets are safe. That no one will ever really know her, or know about Nadzeya. That people will just see a lovely young woman, unattached and bright, dancing and smiling through life.
Nadzeya thought she was lonely, before she met Manon, but she sees with startling clarity that no one will ever be as lonely as her. That blazing smile is proof of that. Sheâll never find what she wants. She canât.
With her final breath, Nadzeya twists her own lips into a sharp smile to mirror Manonâs. Sheâll not let her have the satisfaction of the last laugh.
The last thing she sees is Manonâs mouth curling down, and then everything is cold.
Of course! You didn't mention a particular character but I think this song naturally suggests a very specific group, so! Here's some vaguely ambiguous (probably romantic, could be read as Very Good Friendsâ˘) tragic fantasy Viking Trio! What's tragic fantasy, you ask? It's a fantasy setting and someone is dead, is what! Don't worry, they're gonna get him back :^)
Einar is Norway, TorbjÜrn is Sweden & Søren is Denmark!
Send a number 1-100 and a ship/character and I'll write something inspired by the corresponding song from my most listened this year :)
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Amid the raucous celebration, Einar and TorbjĂśrn were cloaked in silence. People around them raised their flagons and drinking horns and cheered to their victory, praising Sørenâs name.
TorbjĂśrn clenched his jaw and watched Einarâs elegant fingers tighten around his cutlery. Neither of them had eaten a bite yet, nor had they drunk any of the richly flowing mead.
Søren can coax Einar out of any mood, with his smile undeterred by the manâs often dark countenance. He throws an arm around his shoulders, grins against his temple while he tugs TorbjĂśrn over with his other hand, fisted in his coat.
âI donât think they know how annoying he is,â Einar said, and then seemed to choke on the food he hadnât eaten. âWas.â
Søren the Axe-wielder, they were calling him. The warrior who finally conquered the powerful entity most people were afraid to name. It was a title he wouldâve loved, TorbjĂśrn thought. Although he probably wouldnât have been a fan of the way his axe was now being passed around like some sort of relic, by people that werenât him or either of them.
âVery annoying,â TorbjĂśrn agreed, his voice scratchy with disuse. âNever shouldâve let him go out in the first place.â
Heâs so earnest, so ready to lay down his life for them from the moment they meet, and seems confused that theyâd do the same. TorbjĂśrn worries, sometimes, that they arenât good for him, that theyâll drag him down with their silences.
But he doesnât know how to tell Søren that, so he tries to pour his appreciation into the wood he carves, making new beads for his wild hair or a new handle for his axe, talismans for both him and Einar. Just as Einar learns protective spells to lay on the wood and weaves tales by firesides across the realm to enchant both of them. Itâs always the three of them.
âHe can be so stubborn,â Einar continued, stabbing his knife into a piece of meat. He didnât correct his tense this time, and neither did TorbjĂśrn, who just nodded, reaching for his arm. He really should eat; it had been a long battle. Einar looked over at him, dark blue eyes edged with the wild, iridescent purple of his magic.
Or, maybe, it was just emotion this time. If it was, TorbjÜrn had not the skill to say. Søren would have known.
Relieved and adrenalin-filled after a mighty battle, TorbjĂśrn tangles his hands in Sørenâs ever-unruly hair while the man recounts the whole thing, and Einar tiredly crafts healing potions. Søren never shuts his mouth, and in moments like these, itâs a relief to both of them, to know heâs still there. The way he lets TorbjĂśrn mend his armor and Einar heal his wounds means heâs relieved, too.
Eventually, they managed to eat some food, quietly. Ignored by the revelers in the tavern. Søren was still soaking up the attention that neither of them wanted, even though he was no longer here.
Einar kept cutting three pieces.
Sighing, TorbjĂśrn continued to touch his arm, reminding both of them where they were. Who they wereâeven if he wasnât entirely sure of what that was, now.
When the food was gone at long last, Einar laid his slender hand over where TorbjĂśrnâs rested on his forearm. They sat still.
He never stops moving if they donât slow him down now and then. Søren flies through life with little regard for his surroundings. He even wriggles and talks in his sleep. Einar keeps a parchment to note the strangest things he says, and Søren is always amused to find out.
Sometimes, when all three of them can sleep at once, without the need for a watch, he ends up between TorbjĂśrn and Einar, and is still for once. And then, of course, he tells TorbjĂśrn that he snores much too loud.
The tavern started emptying; the townsfolk were exhausted from the long day and full of food and drink. They left Sørenâs axe, stained with tar-like blood, behind. TorbjĂśrn wasnât sure what they intended to do with it, so he stood up from his bench, marched over, and took it, glaring at the few people still hanging around. They did know who he was despite Søren getting all the fame, and let him.
Of course, TorbjÜrn used a sword most of the time, but perhaps he could take up this weapon as a tribute to Søren. He ran his fingers over the runes he had carved into the handle, and saw them light up with a familiar purple glow as he got back.
Standing, Einar also touched the axe. A frisson of energy ran through both of them. Einar took a deep breath, the light flaring with it.
âI can feel him,â he breathed.
An infectious grin, hands rough from gripping an axe, but ever so gentle in their touch. Hair burnished copper in the sun, a thousand freckles bunching as Søren laughs.
ââS not right,â TorbjĂśrn said.
âItâs not,â Einar agreed.
âSupposed to be three of us.â
Their hands touched over the glowing runes, and TorbjĂśrn could almost hear Sørenâs exasperated exclamation of, âJust say what you mean for once, you guys! By the gods, youâd think words cost gold!â
They finally speak their unspoken pact the day before the final battle: itâs the three of them against everything else. Einar weaves a spell between them, connecting them all, and he drapes over both of them in a fitful sleep, his visions darker than ever. TorbjĂśrn is still a knight at heart, even if heâs been caught up with these strange men for years, and his sleep is watchful.
Søren is the only one who sleeps well, content in the knowledge that heâs exactly where heâs supposed to be, who heâs supposed to be.
âHeâs beyond this realm,â Einar said slowly, in the same sort of voice with which he issued prophecies or chanted spellsâsomething deep and otherworldly that settled under TorbjĂśrnâs skin. âBut I donât believe heâs beyond our reach.â
The runes flared as if in agreement, as if Søren was watching and he was grinning triumphantly, saying, âI knew you guys would figure it out!â
And even if he wasnât, TorbjĂśrn knew they would find him, would move mountains and challenge the gods themselves if they had to.
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looking through old notebooks and found some mostly-finished fics I'd never even typed up that I actually quite liked, so here's one of those! I think this one was for a rarepair week. and it truly is... a rarepair :)
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more than you know
rating: M (semi-explicit sex scene)
characters/pairing: Czechia (Kveta)/Vietnam (Vinh), mentioned Thailand (Niran) & Slovakia (Zdeno)
word count: 4511
summary:
Both Vinh and Kveta work very hard. All it takes is one evening of letting loose for things to change.
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âUgh!â Rather dramatically, Kveta flings her bag across the room, into Vinhâs couch. It bounces off, but she doesnât pick it up before throwing herself after it. Her shirt flips up, giving Vinh a peek of a very orange, very lacy bra before itâs covered again.
âYou seem chipper,â she says, mostly just amused by her friendâs antics. She knows Kveta does it on purpose; she claims she likes it when her emotions make people uncomfortable.
âDo not get me started, Vinh,â she muffles into a pillow, before sitting up straight and shaking her light brown hair out. âPeople are just soâŚâ She clenches her jaw.
âDonât I know it.â Vinh leans her elbows on her desk and rests her chin in her hands. Most likely, the kind of frustration that they each feel is different, because people annoy them in different ways at work, but she definitely gets what Kvetaâs talking about. Sometimes, it feels as though thatâs all they talk about.
âAt least you can fight them,â Kvetaâs saying now, looking quite wistful. Vinh huffs. That is not true and she knows it. In return, Kveta just grins, shrugging.
âWell, youâre done now, arenât you?â Standing up, Vinh picks up Kvetaâs bag on her way to the kitchen and throws it at her. Catching it with an oof, Kveta follows.
In the kitchen, she sits on top of the counter and watches Vinh scoop coffee beans into the machine, hands on her knees.
âI guess I am done. Iâve only got a couple small things to finish.â She rolls her eyes. âProvided that her majesty the fucking asshole doesnât decide she wants to change the whole design again.â
Vinh absently pats her thigh through her jeans.
âItâs the fourth time!â
âYouâve said.â
âIâve got four dresses perfectly tailored to a single woman and I have to fight her to get paid for even one!â
âYou should take some time off.â Vinh hands her a cup of coffee.
Kveta falls silent, hands folding around her cup. Vinh blows gently on her own coffee while pulling her ponytail over one shoulder.
âAnd you,â Kveta says, eventually.
âHuh?â
A tired smile aimed down at her, most of Kvetaâs dark lipstick having smudged off during her workday. The smile is a little lopsided, as it is most of the time.
âIâve known you for 13 years and I donât think youâve ever just taken some time off.â
âWeâve been on holiday together,â Vinh points out. Well, them and Niran and Kvetaâs brother, because those two were hard to shake back then. At times, itâd felt more like babysitting two grown men.
âI mean, just a few days, outside the regular holidays, you know. Thereâs always something else to guard.â
âI like my job.â
âSo do I, but I am so done with it at the moment, Vinh.â She shifts, leaning forward a bit. âWe should go out somewhere, like we used to.â
She says that like they used to party every night, even though both Vinh and Kveta had put most of that behind them by the time theyâd metâand Vinh had never been one for stuff like that either way. She wasnât yet in charge of her own security team, then, but she had been assigned to watch out at one of the cityâs major art and design conventionsâspecifically, the fashion section, which was good, because although Vinh liked fashion in a way, she didnât care much about the intricacies of the subject, and if itâd been the photography exhibit, she might have been more easily distracted by that.
Kveta had managed to charm her way past the other security to show her designs to some of the influential people there, who she was, of course, also charming in that very efficient way of hers and who had insisted to Vinh she could stay. Sheâd then promised her a drink afterwards to make it up to her. Vinh is still surprised at herself for taking her up on the offer.
âIâm too old to get drunk,â she says now, quirking her eyebrows and drinking her coffee.
âThatâs bullshit. Also, I didnât say anything about getting drunk! Whereâs your mind at, Vinh?â
To be fair, Vinh isnât convinced Kveta can get drunk. Or at the very least, not on beer. Itâs⌠a talent.
Now quite enthusiastic, Kveta puts her coffee down and jumps to the ground. She isnât actually much taller than Vinh, but is wearing towering platform boots and towers over her at the moment, even as she slouches.
âLetâs do it!â She grins, and Vinh canât help but shrug and smile back.
âFine, then. Should we ask anyone else?â
âI mean, you could try to convince Niran to leave his newborn child at home, but I doubt itâd work.â
Thatâs fair. And Mei, from next door, is away for the week, and Kvetaâs brother, Zdeno, now lives on the other side of the country, which leaves basically no one they both know whoâd be fun to go out with.
âJust the two of us, then,â Vinh concedes. She huffs. âLetâs see if we can keep up with the kids.â
âYouâre not even 35.â Kveta stretches, her cropped shirt riding up so far that Vinh can see her bra again, as well as the graceful lines of the tattoo on her sternum underneath it. She bites her lip, looking down at her remaining coffee. Drains it.
âJust the two of us.â
Kveta was apparently planning on staying for dinner, as they both sometimes do, but now decides to go home, to âchange into a good outfitâ. Vinh looks forward to seeing it; Kvetaâs job has its reflection on her clothing style, and itâs bound to be interesting. As for herself⌠During dinner, she considers the weather. Itâs early spring, but itâs been a nice day, and she wouldnât want to be outshined too much by Kveta, so she can probably get away with baring some skin. As long as she takes a coat.
And a scarf for Kveta, she decides later, just before she leaves, because Kveta is bound to forget. Well, forgetâsheâll put her overall look above the weather until she gets cold. Kveta is a single-minded sort of woman that way.
They meet back up at Kvetaâs apartment, since she lives closer to the city center.
The lipstick has been re-applied, but is now combined with a high-collared lilac dress thatâs barely longer than a shirt, cinched at the waist by a shimmery gold belt, and Kveta is wearing two different shoes, considering which to wear out. Vinh doesnât realize this at first, and immediately feels pretty stupid about it.
âIf they were the same height, maybe,â Kveta says, sounding dead serious, but she winks when Vinh raises her eyebrows, unimpressed. âNo, youâre right, I shouldnât get carried away.â
She wears combat boots, in the end. They have gold laces.
Vinh hasnât taken her coat off yet, and is very aware of the curious looks sheâs getting. Theyâre nice, those looks, even if theyâre just about her clothes. Biting her lip again, Vinh strides ahead of Kveta in her heels to where she can already hear muffled music.
âI hope you were kidding about being too old for this,â Kveta says, catching up with her. She tucks her short hair behind her ear.
âI said I was too old to get drunk,â Vinh reminds her. Sheâs never liked being drunk, anyway.
âThatâs fair. Hey, letâsâŚâ Kveta blinks, and Vinh bites down on a smirk while she shrugs her coat off and folds it over her arm. âNow, thatâs not fair.â Gesturing expansively at all of Vinh, Kveta flicks her grey gaze up and down her body. Vinh tries to tamp down the excited thrill in her stomach.
Itâs just⌠Kveta and those sharply-lined eyes of hers burning across her midriff as if she hasnât seen it before. As if they havenât been to the beach together. She just does that sometimes. What Vinh wishes it meant, is not relevant.
Theyâre holding up the small queue to get in.
Vinh clears her throat and shuffles ahead, and if it werenât for the rapidly flashing lights, sheâd say Kveta was blushing.
Once in the club where they havenât been in several years, at least on Vinhâs part, Kveta goes ahead to the bar while she hangs her coat and takes note of the exits, mostly out of professional interest, and has found two unoccupied stools for them when Vinh catches up. Vinh signals the bartender while Kveta squints at the drinks menu, probably scrutinizing the beer options. In the end, Vinh has no idea what kind of beer it is that she orders, but she just asks for the same thing; Kveta will know.
It is early yet, or relatively so anyway, and the music isnât quite so loud that Vinh has to shout, but Kveta leans close anyway, her knee tucking between Vinhâs, when she lifts her beer in a toast.
âTo the two of us, then,â Vinh says.
âTo the two of us!â Kveta toasts her with a grin, leaning even closer and tucking her hair back behind her ear with her other hand. âAnd to fuck work!â
âSure,â Vinh agrees. She touches Kvetaâs knee quickly, mostly to keep her balance, but it makes Kvetaâs eyebrows quirk interestingly over the rim of her beer.
For a while, they sit at the bar drinking beerâseveral, in Kvetaâs case, and sheâs probably making notes about them on her phoneâand watching people. Kveta gets giggly when sheâs tipsy, and Vinh delights in pointing out peopleâs outfits and having her explain why theyâre perfect for that person.
âThe pants symbolize his youthful spirit, Vinh.â
âHm, Iâm pretty sure they symbolize a midlife crisis.â
A giggle. âIsnât that what I just said?â And, âWe should dance, Iâm starting to feel very old just sitting here.â
Vinh lets herself be pulled into the fray by her hand, although Kveta stops after a few steps to inspect the rings sheâs wearing.
âLooks nice,â she mumbles, looking from Vinhâs hand up to her face. âIf you punch someone wearing theseâŚâ
âTheyâre gonna feel it.â
âNice.â She flashes a grin.
They dance in close proximity for some time, not bothering to talk over the music, brushing shoulders with each other and everyone else around them. The lights flash in Kvetaâs belt, and her grey eyes are bright.
âIâm gonna get another drink!â Vinh eventually shouts. âWant anything?â
âIâyou know what? Get me a cocktail,â Kveta replies, leaning close. Her cheeks are flushed. âYou pick. Iâll be right there.â
Itâs a good ten minutes before she comes over to the bar, and Vinh hasâinadvisablyâdone two shots of tequila and is only now remembering she is no longer twenty. Whatever face sheâs pulling must be pretty funny, because Kveta starts giggling.
âShut up,â Vinh tells her, and pushes at her shoulder when she gets up on her barstool so that she stumbles instead, bumping into a man who followed her out from the crowd.
âHey!â he says, turning around with a frownâKveta laughs apologetically; Vinh is already getting out of her seat and clenching her fists, but the man just grins and waves Kveta off, turning to the bartender.
âWellâwhoa.â Kveta blinks up at Vinh, now actually slightly shorter than her. âOh, fuck, I forgot you get aggressive when youâre drunk.â Her eyes have got very wide, and she parts her dark purple lips.
âIâm notââ Vinh clears her throat and sits back down, pressing her lips together. âI got you a Queen Elizabeth.â She slides the drink her way.
âOh!â Sitting now, and scooting closer, Kveta inspects the glass. âIs that lemon?â
âLime.â
âHuh.â She sets the edge of the glass against her lips but doesnât drink yet, instead knocking her knee into Vinhâs thigh and smiling at her. âIâd have loved to watch you fight a man.â
Despite herself, Vinh snorts.
âI wouldâve! It wouldâve been soâjustââ She tips her head back, drowning almost her whole cocktail in one go. âFuck! Thatâs sour!â
At Vinhâs unimpressed look, she starts giggling again.
She gets another one, and tries to get Vinh one too, but Vinh is definitely feeling those tequila shots now and starts drinking water after a single gin and tonic. Kveta just starts complaining about her demanding client again.
âIâm not doing that again, Vinh,â she says, very seriously, and Vinh digs her nails into her palms to stifle the urge to just offer to punch that fucking woman and everyone else whoâs ever upset Kveta. Thatâs stupid. It wouldnât help.
âIâm not doing anything,â Kveta is declaring now. âIâm taking time off. Gonna visit Zdeno.â
âGood idea.â
âYou should come.â She touches Vinhâs knee this time, fingertips lingering softly. âWe could see the sights, you know?â Her hair falls messily against her flushed cheek, and Vinh reaches for it. She pauses when Kveta looks at her hand, blinking, but then the woman just leans over more, so she continues, tucking the strand away for her.
âI could do with some time off,â she agrees, and revels in Kvetaâs beaming smile.
âLetâs do it!â She nearly falls forward off her stool, but just laughs when Vinh catches her. âI donât care if Iâm asked to dress a fucking royal wedding, Iâm not doing it!â
That seems unlikely, but everyoneâs entitled to their drunk fancies.
âMy parents live pretty close to your brother, you know.â
Case in point.
âYes!â She puts her other hand on Vinhâs other knee, fingers skimming the edge of her skirt. âIâd love to see your parents, theyâre great.â
They are. Theyâre also very adamant that Vinh should get married, or at least find herself a girlfriend. And they love Kveta. Vinh suddenly feels like punching something again. She tightens her jaw while Kveta looks away.
Kveta gets a soda while Vinh goes to the bathroom, and then they dance for a little bit longer, but before long, they agree that itâs time to go. The crown is still thick, but they both feel like theyâre done for the night. Kveta is still perky, almost bouncing while they walk to her apartment, although Vinh feels like thereâs an almost nervous edge to it. Sheâs probably thinking about her job again, knowing her.
Belatedly, she drapes her scarf over her friendâs shoulders, and Kveta smiles brightly at her, pulling the fabric around herself.
In the portico of her building, Kveta runs into a man again, tripping over her own feet as she climbs the small step, and before the guy can even rise to his full height and glare at her, Vinh has shoved herself in front of her and is tensing her muscles, glaring up.
âWhoa!â Kveta says, grabbing the back of her coat. âSorry, SadÄąk.â
The man raises his eyebrows and steps aside.
âCome on, Vinh.â Kveta tugs at her arm. Thereâs an odd tone to her voice that snaps Vinh out of herâwell, whatever that was.
âSorry,â she says, following Kveta up the narrow stairs. âI donât know whatâŚâ
In front of her apartment door, Kveta turns around, eyes bright and determined in the low light.
âYouâre dangerous when youâre drunk, Vinh.â She says her name very intently, like it means something.
âSorry.â
âNo, donât be.â She turns to open her door. Takes a breath and turns back once again. âItâs really hot, actually.â
âKvetaâŚâ
âItâsâyouâreâŚâ She steps backwards across her threshold and stumbles again, and Vinh catches her, of course she catches her, grasping her shoulder with one hand and her waist with the other, and Kveta presses her hands against her bare midriff. Her breath is heavy but she looks steadily at her.
âYou canât be serious,â Vinh says, jaw clenching.
âVinh,â Kveta whispers. She steps back, taking Vinh with her.
âHow drunk are you?â she asks under her breath, heart beating in her throat and skin tingling.
âJust enough to tell you how fucking hot you are. I want toâIâve wanted toââ Her fingers are curling into Vinhâs stomach, and she looks down, parting her lips, before meeting her eye. âI know itâs probably stupid. Iâm justâŚâ She tries to step back, but Vinh follows, letting go of her waist only to close the door behind them. âVinhâŚâ
She runs her fingers up over Kvetaâs jaw, tucking her hair back once more, biting her own lip.
âIt probably is stupid,â she mumbles, but there is heat suffusing her body that has nothing to do with alcohol, and the brightness in Kvetaâs eyes isnât like that either, sheâs certain.
âYeah?â
There is a still moment that seems charged, and then theyâre both moving as if magnetized, Vinh pulling and Kveta pushing until they collapse against the door, kissing with an almost desperate force. Vinhâs scarf falls from Kvetaâs shoulders when Vinh pushes a hand into her hair, and their legs slot together like puzzle pieces. Vinh licks the aftertaste of beer from Kvetaâs lips until she parts them on a breathy sound, hands clenching on Vinhâs sides.
Gasping, Vinh pulls back, head bonking against the door. She can feel Kvetaâs breath, hot and heavy on her face. Can feel it when her friend laughs breathlessly, almost as if in disbelief.
âDoesnât feel stupid.â Her lips skim over the cut of Vinhâs jaw. âYouâre so fucking beautiful, Vinh.â
She swallows, tipping her head back to kiss her again, softly, capturing her upper lip before pulling away to look closely at her. Miraculously, her lipstick still looks almost perfectly fine, but her eyes are dark, yet somehow bright at the same time, pale skin flushed.
âKveta, IâŚâ Vinh trails off when Kveta raises a hand and swipes her fingers over her lower lip. Kveta swallows.
âYou got some lipstick.â
âOh.â Vinh notices that she isnât even looking at her lips; her gaze meets Vinhâs steadily. Again, she asks, âHow drunk are you?â
âJust enough that I canât remember why this would be a bad idea.â Her free hand follows the curve of Vinhâs spine, touch feather-light. âAnd you?â
âIâm⌠The same.â
âMaybe it isnât a bad idea.â
Vinh twists her hand in Kvetaâs wavy hair and kisses her again, harder this time.
âIf it turns out to be one,â she mumbles against her lips, âwe can deal with it. Weâre grown women.â
Kveta doesnât even reply, just makes a sound deep in her throat and presses her leg up between Vinhâs, hand pushing underneath the waist of her skirt. Vinhâs toes curl in her shoes. Her whole body is thrumming with heat now, so she lets go of Kveta to shrug her coat off her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground along with her bag. Kveta takes a step backwards, and Vinh again chases after her so that their lips barely part, grabbing her upper arms for balance. Though itâs almost completely dark in the hall, the brightness in Kvetaâs face is unmistakable.
âCome on,â she says, turning, and they both pretty much trip into the first room on the rightâher bedroom. She blindly turns on the light while dragging Vinh close again, fingers curled around the back of her neck. In return, Vinh finds the clasp of her belt and undoes it. She follows it down with her fingers until she feels hot skin, as Kveta starts pressing messy kisses along her jaw and she tilts her head to the side. Pushing her hands back up, Vinh follows the lines of Kvetaâs body until the woman lifts her arms, allowing the short dress to be lifted over her head.
Her hair is in even more disarray now, and her warm grin looks a little wild around the edgesâalthough her lipstick is still mostly fine. Vinh canât bring herself to look away.
âWhat?â Kveta asks. She takes a deep breath. âSee anything you like?â
Vinh raises her eyebrows, trying to look unimpressed, which makes her giggle a bit, and then, she drags her own shirt up over her head in response, letting it also fall on the floor. Stepping close again, eyes not leaving Vinhâs face, Kveta reaches around for the zip of her skirt, and pulls it down. She swallows hard when Vinh steps out of it, gaze flitting across her body.
âGod, Vinh,â she breathes, bravado suddenly forgotten, and Vinhâs heart stutters a bit. Belatedly, she kicks her heels off, bringing her to just below Kvetaâs height as usual, and then she kisses her again, gasping against her lips at the feeling of their bodies pressing together, skin to skin. Kveta actually swears under her breath. She grasps at Vinhâs hips to pull her closer, pressing her thigh between her legs.
Sheâs warm, and pliant under Vinhâs fingers in a way she normally never isâthat neither of them can allow themselves to beâand tips her head back so she can nip at her throat. She breathes Vinhâs nameâKveta has always seemed fond of saying her name, but never like this, never so breathy with this longing layered over it. Has she ever imagined saying it like that, breathed it late at night like Vinh has hers?
While pushing her nose into Kvetaâs messy hair, Vinh feels the womanâs fingers skate up her back, until they hover over her bra. She pulls back to look up at her, biting her lip, and inclines her head.
Kveta opens her mouth. Closes it again. She snaps Vinhâs bra open with one hand and gently slides the straps off her shoulders so she can shrug it off.
Even this is technically nothing new; theyâve been skinny-dipping once before (at Niranâs insistence) but both of their breath hitches, and Kveta hurriedly reaches for her own braâstill the bright orange one glimpsed earlier, which doesnât match her lime green underwear whatsoever. Smiling a little to herself, Vinh traces a finger over her sternum tattoo, lightly following the elegant black lines that cradle her breasts. She remembers there being much complaining about how annoying it was while healing, but Vinh thinks it looks beautiful. Kveta giggles, catching her wrist.
âTickles,â she says, and kisses Vinh again, briefly. âCome on.â
She gestures to her neat bed, and Vinh hops up on it, sitting up on her knees while Kveta remembers her shoes and grunts in frustration, sitting on the edge to undo the laces.
âIâm never wearing shoes with laces again,â she grumbles. âIâm gonnaââ
Vinh traces her fingers down her spine, cutting her off and making her fumble with her shoes.
âDonât mind me,â she says.
âI donât think thatâs possible, Vinh.â Kveta sounds very sincere. Vinh shuffles forward and leans against her back, running her hands down over her shoulders and upper arms.
She gets one shoe off, kicking it clean across the room so it slams into her wardrobe. Vinh, not willing to stop this exploration right now, pushes her lips against the side of her neck and her hands down across her waist and down underneath the thin straps of her underwear. At that, Kveta evidently decides to abandon the idea of removing her other boot and leans back to lift her hips.
Heart beating overtime and heat pooling in her stomach, Vinh pushes the lacy fabric down her thighs until Kveta twists, doing the rest of the removing herself while pushing Vinh down, kissing her messily. Vinh grabs her hair, arching into her. Wrapping one leg around her thigh to press them together.
âFuck,â Kveta breathes. And, âHold on a second.â
She sits up, breathing hard, and just looks down at Vinh for a moment as if forgetting herself, a hand lingering on her stomach. Heat races through Vinhâs body. There is no question, now, what sheâs looking atânot even really a question what sheâs thinking, and itâs undoubtedly much the same as what Vinh is.
After a long moment, Kveta reaches for Vinhâs underwear, wetting her lips, and Vinh canât help the noise that falls from her mouth when she hooks her fingers in it.
Kveta grins. âI wondered,â she says, while Vinh lifts her hips and raises her legs so she can remove the underwear. Thereâs a brand new tremor to her voice.
âWhat?â Vinh pulls her close again when the last bit of fabric is gone, gasping.
âI wondered if⌠If youâd be noisy.â
âYou wondered,â Vinh echoes. She runs her fingers down Kvetaâs sides. âAnd what did you imagine?â
âLots of things.â Her eyes blaze. Vinh didnât know grey was such an expressive color.
âMe too,â she whispers.
âOh my god, Vinh.â They grasp at each other, rocking together, their lips meshing. âI donât think this is a stupid idea anymore. Fuck.â
Vinh doesnât reply, because her hands are everywhere and she presses one of her own between their bodies, finding Kvetaâs skin heated and damp, relishing her gasping breathâeven if it still smells vaguely of beer.
Once they settle into a rhythm of touch and breath and movement, itâs almost embarrassing how quickly they both tip over the edgeâfor Vinh, itâs all those times imagining that do it, the tension sheâs unwittingly built up over those months, maybe years, releasing. Kveta might be the same. Itâs a heady thought.
âVinh,â the woman pants, heavily and repeatedly. âVinh, my god.â
âYes.â Itâs a moan more than a word. Vinhâs arching her back, pressing all of them tightly together.
Finally.
Kveta falls apart just moments before her, gasping her release into the skin of Vinhâs neck, hair tickling her collarbones. Vinh herself breathes her name the way sheâs imagined, trembling under her touch.
They keep lying there, silently entwined while their breathing slowsâalthough Vinhâs heartbeat remains high with adrenalin, which sheâs sure Kveta can hear, with her head still resting on her chest. She cards unsteady fingers through her hair, and Kveta slowly looks up at her.
âI think I usually imagine that lasting a bit longer,â she mumbles, and Vinh releases a breath.
âMaybe we can work on it.â
âOh, yeah. Yeah. I hope so.â She wriggles up to look down at Vinh. When her hair drags over Vinhâs cheek, she pushes it away again, resting her hand on Kvetaâs cheekbone. âI think⌠We should talk tomorrow. But, Vinh, this isâŚâ
A curiously soft smile lights up Kvetaâs face, her cheeks dimpling the way they seldom do.
âWe are, Vinh. We will be. God, youâre incredible, I hope you know.â She wriggles. âIâm still wearing a shoe! Iâve gotââ
Vinh kisses her, and she melts into it, falling silent and becoming soft and pliant once more.
Theyâll take a shower, and lie in bed talking about nothing, and then, tomorrow, theyâll consider what this means. And then, when they take that time off, Vinh will finally be able to appease her parents, and neither of them will think about work for at least a few days.
(Except when Vinhâs mom asks Kveta if sheâll design their wedding dresses, and Kveta says, with a glimmer in her eye, that she already has plenty of ideas.)
31. âAre you drunk?â
32. "I think I deserve a kiss."
Whoa anon you went a bit back to find that list! But sure, I'm always up for more nedcan :D Those prompts seem humorous, but this little fic actually turned out pretty serious? I mean, not in a dark way, just in a sort of introspective way. There's still jokes in there though, that's just how I write :)
As always, Maarten is Ned, Matthewâs Can, and Alfred's America, of course. (And both Belg and Port get one mention, they're Manon & SimĂŁo.)
.
A loud ringing startles Maarten out of his concentration.
What the hell, is that his doorbell? Putting his brush down, he walks over to his window, from where he can see down into the street, to check whoâs stupid enough to be ringing his bell at nearly midnight on a Thursday.
Expecting to see some rowdy pranksters giggling among themselves, Maartenâs quite surprised to recognize the men standing outside his downstairs studio, illuminated by the streetlights. Well, one is standingâthe other is mostly hanging off him. He opens the window.
âMatthew?â he calls down, and the man supporting the other startles visibly, looking up. When he spots Maarten, he sketches a sheepish little wave.
âSo sorry toâAl, for godâs sakeââ
Alfred, whoâs draped over his brotherâs shoulders, waves up at Maarten with much more enthusiasm, yelling, âHey dude! Mattâs very happy to see ya!â
âOh my god, shut your mouth.â
Maarten decides to just go down and open the door before the brothers wake the whole street. Sure, he lives close enough to the city center that some amount of noise is expected, but Alfredâs got quite the mouth on him.
âIâm really sorry,â Matthew repeats as soon as the door opens. Heâs red-faced and stumbling under his brotherâs weight. âAlâs got a little, uhâŚâ
âMatt, are you drunk?â Maarten asks.
âIâm really not, I had like, three beers, two hours ago.â
Alfred, whoâs definitely had more than three beers, giggles drunkenly, as Matthew continues, âBut thatâs more than Iâm willing to drive on and Iâm really sorry to ask but can we just sober up a bit here?â
If itâd just been Alfred, there is absolutely no way Maarten would allow thisâhe might not have even opened the doorâbut when Matthewâs asking, he always has a hard time saying no, so he steps back and gestures them in.
âYou rock,â Alfred slurs at him, trying to⌠Pat him on the head, maybe? Maarten ducks out of his reach, but the man knocks Matthewâs glasses askew with his uncoordinated gesturing. âMatt, your friends are cool.â
âThatâs the first time heâs ever said that,â Matthew tells Maarten, and that makes him laugh as he closes the door.
By the time Matthew has wrangled his brother up the narrow stairs to Maartenâs apartment, it is exactly midnight.
âIs he gonna throw up?â Maarten asks warily.
âI donât think so.â Matthew is slightly out of breath, and Alfred is leaning against a door, seemingly fascinated by the pictures on Maartenâs wall.
ââS you, Matt!â he enthuses, jabbing a finger against one of the frames.
âYes, yeah, donât touch Maartenâs stuff, Al.â He does look at the picture, and smiles, before turning to Maarten again. âIf we can just⌠Sit on your couch or something.â
Maarten nods. It takes both him and Matthew to maneuver Alfred into his living room and deposit him on the couch; the manâs limbs are heavy. Heâs obviously coming down from his high mood already, and drapes across the whole couch.
âDude,â Matthew starts, tugging at him, but Maarten grasps his shoulder to gently pull him back.
âItâs fine,â he says, while Alfred yawns widely.
With a put-upon sigh, Matthew plucks his brotherâs glasses from his nose and puts them on the coffee table, pats his hair, and then he follows Maarten to the kitchen without further comment from the man.
âIâm sorry,â he says again, pushing his own glasses up and his hair away from his forehead, which is still a little flushed.
âAs long as he doesnât throw up, youâre good,â Maarten tells him. And if he does, itâll be on Alfredâs own head to clean that, not Matthewâs. âWant something to drink?â
Amused, Matthew echoes, âTo drink?â
âWell, I was thinking some water, or tea,â Maarten clarifies. âBut Iâm sure I have a fourth beer if you want it.â
âTea sounds nice, Maarten, thank you.â
While he busies himself with the water, and measuring tea into a strainer, Maarten asks, âSo what exactlyâs goinâ on here? Itâs not every day you turn up at midnight with your wasted brother in tow.â
âYeah, I told him to slow down.â Matthew reaches over to grab mugs from the cabinet with practiced ease, setting them down on the counter. âHe wanted to celebrate getting a promotion. I was basically enlisted as driver.â
âAnd then you drank three beers?â
âWell, I didnât know heâd be so out of it by midnight.â
âMust be good money in that promotion, huh?â
The water is boiling, so Maarten fills the mugs while Matthew laughs. Heâs leaning against the kitchen counter, watching with sleepy eyes as the tea steeps. Immediately, Maartenâs fingers itch with the familiar urge to draw him, to study every angle of his face and every line around his eyes thatâs appeared over the years theyâve known each other. Even that urge, heâs admitted to himself some time ago, is just a stand-in for what he actually wants, but itâs easier to admit than the deep, nearly all-encompassing things he feels.
âYou wanna go outside?â he asks. âItâs a nice night.â
âI could use some air,â Matthew agrees, smiling softly. On the way, he pokes his head into the living room; apparently, Alfred has already fallen asleep on the couch.
Out on Maartenâs roof terrace, the air is quiet and cool, moonlight illuminating his lounge set and the array of flowers he keeps up here. In these early days of summer, theyâre doing well. Matthew sets his mug of tea down and goes around looking at the plants as though heâs never seen them before.
Definitely a little tipsy, Maarten thinks with amusement as the man tells a sunflower itâs looking beautiful.
When heâs done praising Maartenâs plants, Matthew flops over next to him on the rattan couch. He stretches slowly, and nudges his glasses up to rub his eyes.
âWhat were you doing, anyway?â he asks Maarten after a moment. âI hope I didnât interrupt anything.â
âNothing much, just some painting.â Come to think of it, he needs to remember to clean his brushes later.
âThatâs something. Really, Iâll pay you back for this.â
âMatt, itâsâŚâ Maarten takes a breath. âYouâre my friend. Donât worry about it.â
âWerenât you telling me just last week about how SimĂŁo still owes you 50 cents?â
âAh, see, the difference is, SimĂŁoâs annoying.â
That gets him a laugh. Maarten is mostly joking, was mostly joking last week as wellâalthough it would be nice to get his 50 cents back.
âWhatâre you painting?â
âHm, commission work.â Maarten blows over his tea, then takes a cautious sip. Too hot.
âAt midnight?â
âYâknow, inspiration struck.â He glances over when Matthew fidgets. âReally, Matt, itâs fine. I owe you much more than you could ever owe me.â
Brow furrowing, Matthew looks at him and says, âIâm sure thatâs not true.â
He probably thinks so, but Maarten knows that his life would have turned out much different if not for Matthew. If not for his sudden presence years ago, quiet and unassuming but steady, just when he needed it. Of course, thereâs no telling what wouldâve happened without him but, well⌠Heâs never really told anyone that in so many words, let alone Matthew himself.
Now, he bites the inside of his cheek and inadvisably sips some more tea. The night is quiet, the wind carrying the sounds of nightlife away from the terrace and just rustling the leaves of the flowers instead. The two of them drink tea in easy silence, and when Maartenâs is finished, he digs a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it absently.
Equally as absently, he hands it over to Matthew when he holds a hand out. Then blinks, watching him take a slow drag.
âYou know thatâs just a cigarette,â he says, a little perplexed. Matthew just smiles, leaning back into the pillows.
âYeah, I know.â
âAlright, then.â
Matthewâs smile is soft around the edges, and his hair is messier than usual, and Maarten looks at him smoking his cigarette with fondness. Itâs still a bit of an odd feeling, although itâs been creeping up on him for years. In the beginning, it scared him sometimes; getting caught up, not in Matthewâs looks but the way he laughed at Maartenâs dry jokes, or how thoughtful his quiet insights could be, or the way his face lit up when he brought his dog home.
And thatâs not to say Maarten isnât attracted to him, but he knows sex, he knows what to do with that feeling. And this is⌠Something more than that.
âAlâs trying to get me to vape,â Matthewâs saying, unimpressed.
âI hear thatâs bad for you,â Maarten replies, watching him laugh while he passes the cigarette back over, their fingers touching.
âSoâs drinking too much.â He shifts towards him, pulling one leg up on the couch and resting an arm on the backrest. âThank you, Maarten.â
He hums questioningly.
âWell, just, I know he isnât your friend, is all.â
âMaybe I should ask Alfred for payment, then.â
âIâm the one who dumped him on you. Really, if thereâs anythingâŚâ
Through the haze of smoke as he breathes out, Maarten looks over at him curiously. Something about his voice seems different than usualâmaybe thatâs down to those three beers, or the moonlight, or maybe itâs his own wishful thinking. He offers him the cigarette, which Matthew takes, but their fingers tangle together briefly as he does. Thereâs no reason for that to happen, unless they make it.
âThereâs things, Matt,â Maarten says, tilting his head back to look at the night sky.
âYeah?â he breathes, and his voice does something new again, going heavy with anticipation.
âBut nothing Iâd want to⌠Nothing you should owe me.â
âWhat if I justâŚâ Matthew shifts abruptly; he pushes the cigarette out into the ashtray on the table, then leans back again. âWhat if I just want to do something? For you? Orâor with you?â
âWith me,â Maarten echoes, swallowing.
Voice low, Matthew says, âHumor me, Maarten. What would you ask for?â
He takes a deep breath. âWell, youâre already here.â
âI am.â Fingers brush over Maartenâs shoulder. âHappy to be.â
âGod, Matt, is this reallyâis this howâŚâ Is this how this finally happens, is what he wants to ask. It seems so incongruous.
In a near-whisper, âJust ask me.â
âFor putting up your brother, I think Iâd deserve⌠A kiss.â He hears Matthew let out a shuddering breath. Maarten glances over at him out of the corner of his eye. âIs that⌠Is that something thatâs on offer?â
âIf itâs you asking, MaartenâŚâ He leans close to brush his lips over Maartenâs cheek, his breath hot and the touch barely there, yet Maartenâs heart skips a beat. Even more so when Matthewâs fingertips brush over the back of his neck, almost ticklish.
âI am asking,â he mumbles.
âThen, yes.â Matthew presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth. Maarten can feel him smile when he involuntarily makes a small, somewhat embarrassing noise.
When Maarten slowly turns his head, Matthew makes a sound in turn, as their lips brush together and Maartenâs lower lip gets gently caught between his. Eyes nearly closed, he reaches up. Tucks his fingers around Matthewâs jaw, the shape of which heâs studied so often.
âOh,â Matthew breathes. And, fingers curling around the back of Maartenâs neck, he tilts his head to properly kiss him.
Although the touch sparks through Maarten like wildfire, the actual kiss is easy and unhurried, so he lets himself melt into it, thinking only finally. Heâd hardly let himself think about it, but when he did, it usually was like this; none of the frantic mess he could get from other people, just Matthew, kissing him like theyâve been doing it for ages. His lips are warm in the night air.
When Matthew pulls back a bit, just enough to look at him, he lets his fingers wander over his face, trying to memorize it in this new way. He tucks some blond curls behind his ear, ghosting the pads of his fingers along the shell. Matthew smiles, so Maarten runs his thumb over the manâs lips.
âIâm tempted to say finally,â Matthew says, which makes Maarten smile too. They both knew, then. Still, he wonders.
âMatt, why didnât you everâŚâ
âMaybe it was easier not to.â He taps his fingers absently on the side of Maartenâs neck. âI guess I just neededâŚâ
âThree beers?â Maarten supplies.
âWell, maybe.â A wry smile. âDonât let that reflect poorly on me.â
âNever, Matt.â Maarten pulls him close to kiss him again, because he doesnât think heâll want to stop doing that now.
âMh, why didnât you?â Matthew asks him in turn, their lips still touching.
âSometimes, Iâm stupid.â Heâll try to explain, sometime, that it feels to him as though things like romance, or affection, are buried somewhere deep inside him and take massive amounts of time and effort to actually take hold, and that very few people have been worth that effortâbut nowâs not the time for that. âYouâreâyouâre important to me.â
Another soft noise, and Matthew bites his lip through one of those smiles that light up his face when Maarten looks at him. His eyes are bright even in the moonlight.
âAlright,â he whispers. Then, abruptly, he yawns, and Maarten chuckles.
âYou could stay here, if you want,â he says, now absently winding those blond curls around his fingers.
Of course, heâs stayed before, but he asks, âWhere? Alâs on the couch.â
âThereâs space in my bed.â He wets his lips. âNot for anythingâwell, thereâs space for that too, later, if you want.â
âNot with my brother here for sure,â Matthew says, huffing a laugh when Maarten grimaces. âBut Iâm sure thatâll be great later.â
Maarten nods, though he realizes at the same time that, when he imagines later, itâs not actually sex, right now. Itâs breakfast the morning after, or kissing Matthew goodbye before work. Finding the most scenic spots on holiday to make him smile and talk with enthusiasm. Getting into silly arguments about plants at the nursery.
âWhatâre you thinking about?â Matthew asks. Maarten blinks.
âFlowers.â
A fond grin, tired eyes scrunching up behind his glasses. âFigures.â
âReally. Whatâs the date? I have to get you flowers in a year,â Maarten mostly-jokes, and so heâs smiling when Matthew kisses him quiet.
Against his lips, he says, âI want tulips.â
âIâll remember.â
Pulling back, Matthew gazes at him for a while. âCanât wait.â He yawns again, so Maarten stands, offering him a hand up.
âLetâs get you to bed, then.â
Before that, though, Matthew wraps his arms around his neck, looking up at him, and Maarten leans down a little, until their noses touch. He presses his hands down along Matthewâs spine, pulling him close. They stand silently entangled on his roof for a while, leaning into each other. It feels easy. Safe, even. Maartenâs eyes get heavy, and he yawns, which makes Matthew chuckle.
âYou started it,â Maarten grumbles.
âSo sorry.â A soft kiss pressed to the corner of his lips. âCome on, then. I hope Alâs still alive.â
Alfred, it turns out, has somehow eaten all of Maartenâs cornflakesâand nothing elseâand then fallen back asleep on the couch. The only comment he has the following morning is, âAw man, you guys. Now I owe Manon a twenty! You got any cornflakes?â
Maarten thinks he rather deserves another kiss for that.
at long last, it's part six of my ghost stories that are not quite ghost stories! in the last one, I wrote there'd be two more, but it turns out there's three! so two more after this one. the song this time is Lake of Silver Bells by Carbon Leaf, and I wish I could tell you what my fascination with lakes is but I have no idea! because it's the 1990s, please imagine the most nineties fashion you can for this one :)
word count: 8035
summary:
It was supposed to be a simple exploration, but what the journalist and the antiquarian find out on the lake, might be more than they ever anticipated.
also on AO3
.
Itâs only when a voice startles Matthew that he realizes heâs gotten quite lost. He blinks down at the unfamiliar street while his dog tugs at his leash, then looks up at the man who addressed him.
âYou alright?â heâs asking now, lowering the cigarette heâs holding.
âYes! Sorry, I was⌠Thinking.â Matthew adjusts his backpack, and the tall stranger quirks his eyebrows minutely. When he takes a drag of his cigarette, his green eyes pierce through the smoke, and Matthew feels a bit self-conscious about having interrupted his break.
He looks up behind the man. âOh! Is this your shop?â
They are, in fact, standing out front of a narrow antiques store, the sign over the window proclaiming âsince 1888â. Matthewâs dog sniffs curiously around the doorway.
âIt is, matter of fact. Been my familyâs for over a century.â Now, the man stubs his cigarette out on an ashtray resting on the windowsill and straightens, which reveals that heâs even taller than Matthew had thought. âCan I help you with anything?â
âI⌠Hm, maybe.â
âThatâs intriguing.â He nods, gaze sweeping over Matthew. Gestures. âCome in.â
âWhat about Kuma?â Matthew holds the leash of his dog up, and Kuma lifts his great white head towards the man, tongue out. âHeâs pretty gentle, butâŚâ
âThatâs no problem,â the man assures him, and turns to go into the antiques store.
Inside, the radio is on softly, and though there are many curious items on display, the small store doesnât feel cluttered. There is no one else in at the moment, and Matthew follows the owner to the old-fashioned register, where the man leans on the dark wood with both hands.
âAlright, how might I be able to help?â he asks. His accent is local, which is probably good.
âWell, Iâm working on an article about this town,â Matthew starts, gesturing as if to encompass the whole place. âFor a travel magazine, you see? Anyway, I was hoping to learn more about the history of the place, and also to go out onto the lakes, but itâs, wellâŚâ
âItâs autumn.â The shop owner nods. âThis place turns into a ghost town as soon as the tourists leave. Youâre too late.â
Matthew pulls a pained face. âThat was kind of the point.â
âI see, I see. And I guess⌠No, heâll have closed up shop by nowâŚâ As he trails off, the man twists the bleached tips of his hair further up, frowning thoughtfully.
âI think the lakes would be gorgeous now. Iâd wanted to take photos,â Matthew adds, petting Kumaâs head absently. He isnât sure what to make of the antiquarian.
âThey are amazinâ,â he replies, then seems to decide something and leans forward again. âIf youâd like, I could take you out on the lakes sometime. Havenât used my boat in ages.â
Matthew smiles, somewhat startled by the offer. âReally?â
âWhy not?â The man shrugs, although he smiles back slightly. He must be a few years older than Matthew, and seems both completely out of place and exactly at home in the antiques store. âIâll need to check on the boat first, though, so give me a day or so.â
âOf course, no problem! Thank you, sir.â
The man grimaces. âPlease, call me Maarten.â
âRight. Iâm Matthew.â
âGood, Matthew, where are you staying? I can let them know when itâs ready.â
So Matthew tells him the name of his bed & breakfast, and Maarten promises to call. With that, he finds himself, and Kuma, back outside the shop on the still-unfamiliar street. Great. Now to find the way back.
The bell of the antique shop chimes when the door opens, and Maarten comes out.
âI⌠Do have some town maps, if thatâd be helpful,â he says. âNew ones, even.â
âI swear Iâm not usually this bad at directions,â Matthew tells him, gratefully accepting a tourist map from him.
âNo, I suppose thatâd be a bad trait for a travel journalist. Donât worry about it, happens to a lot of people.â With a nod and a brief pat on Kumaâs head, he ducks back into his store, and Matthew unfolds the map.
-
The next afternoon, Matthew returns to his bed & breakfast to find the hostess waiting there to tell him he has a message.
âMaarten van Dijk wants you to know he is ready to go out to the lakes,â the woman recites from a slip of paper. âHeâll be at the docks tomorrow morning at nine, unless that doesnât work for you.â
âThat should be fine,â Matthew mutters. âThank you.â
âMr Williams, are you sureâŚâ She pauses, then shakes her head. âNo, never mind.â
 âWhat?â
âNo, itâs nothing. Itâs beautiful out on the water. Iâm sure youâll enjoy it.â She nods decisively and walks away, leaving Matthew frowning after her.
It must be some smalltown gossip heâs not to know about, he guesses. Shrugging, he goes to his room. He adds his notes from today to his work folder, checks that he has enough rolls of film for his camera, and sets out again. Apparently, there is a local museum.
-
It is a beautiful, clear autumn morning when Matthew makes his way to the townâs docksâwell, dock. Only two boats are moored there at the moment, and he spots Maarten on the furthest one, smoking and looking at a map or a chart of some kind. At Matthewâs approach, he looks up. Matthew smiles.
âGood morning.â
âMorninâ. Come on board.â He jerks his chin and stands up to steady Matthew when he steps from the dock down into the boat.
Itâs a small vesselâMatthew doesnât know nearly enough about boats to know its actual nameâpainted a muted orange that fits right in with the autumn canopy. He sits on a bench so he doesnât fall.
âAlright. Anywhere in particularâ Hey, whereâs your dog?â Maarten asks, pausing in untying the boat from the dock.
âOh, the hostess of my B&B takes care of him if I canât take him. Iâm not sure if itâs safe for him, or if he could scare the wildlife.â
Maarten mumbles something as he sits at the back of the boat to start up the motor. After the initial roar of noise, it settles into a gentle hum as they start to drive away from town.
âHeâd probably be fine, but youâd be the best judge of that,â Maarten says. âAnywhere in particular you want me to take you?â
âI donât think so. You know the lakes, presumably.â
âYeah. Weâll just do a loop around. Give a shout if you wanna stop somewhere for pictures or something.â
Lake is really a generous term for the waterways they start making their way through. While there are open areas every now and then, a lot of the place is marshy, leaving only relatively narrow swathes of deeper water for Maarten to drive his boat through.
âI used to go sailing a lot,â he tells Matthew. âBut you canât really do that around here.â
âNo, I suppose not.â He has to duck out of the way of a tree branch full of golden leaves. âYou used to live somewhere else?â
âNot that far away, by one of the larger lakes. Before I took over the shop from my mother.â He gestures ahead. âLeft or right, Matthew?â
âLeft.â Towards the sun.
âExciting.â When Matthew turns to look at him, bemused, Maarten huffs a laugh but doesnât say anything else.
By ten, they reach a solid patch of land that actually has a small, sandy beach, where Matthew asks to stop.
âCan I get off here?â he asks. âJust for a moment.â
âSure.â Maarten looks over at the beach, and frowns. âGod damn it. Theyâre havinâ parties again.â
Matthew watches him stalk over immediately after securing the boat to a tree and start to pick up trash from the sand, furiously putting it into a garbage bag he pulls from the pocket of his windbreaker. Somewhat charmed by this side of the curt antiquarian, Matthew takes a quick photo of him doing that, and makes a note of it in his flipover notepad, but then sets about doing a little circuit of the island theyâre on.
The autumn colors are stunning in the sun; he really doesnât understand why more people donât come out to the Lake Valley after summerâs end. Although heâs read that many birds live in this area, he doesnât find any at the momentâpossibly, the noise of the engine scared them away. Or possibly Maartenâs grumbling as he comes up behind Matthew, garbage bag slung over his shoulder. Itâs pretty filled.
âStupid kids,â he says. âItâs one thing to party somewhere dangerous, but then to leave your trash everywhere tooâŚâ
âDangerous?â
âWould you know the way to town from here?â Maarten asks, and Matthew shakes his head, understanding where heâs going with that. âNo. Now imagine that, but in the dark, and youâre drunk and possibly high, and eighteen.â
âDid you ever get lost?â
Maarten raises his eyebrows, looking amused, and says, âNo. I know the lakes. Not saying I didnât do the other things, but not out here.â
âWell, thatâs fair. I grew up in the mountains. You donât do that out there, either.â
âI can imagine. Mountains terrify me.â He looks up suddenly, frowning. âDid you hear that?â
Matthew didnât hear anything in particular, but he follows Maarten as he walks to the isletâs shoreline, on the opposite side of where the boat is, and watches him squint into the distance. There is another relatively open space here, although hemmed in on both sides by tall trees, bent over the dark water like a tunnel. The sun frames Maartenâs silhouette as he listens intently, head cocked.
âSome sort of bell,â he mutters.
âLike a church?â Maybe, one is tolling somewhere in a town. There doesnât seem to be any wind, but Matthew knows that back home, sounds could echo off the mountains for ages, so who knows what this flat land could carry?
Maarten shakes his head. âCloser to a shop bell. Hm.â He spends a moment longer looking out over the water, then turns to Matthew abruptly. âDidnât mean to interrupt your work, Matthew.â
âOh no, itâs alright. Should we go find that bell?â
The antiquarian blinks slowly, lips parting as if he hadnât considered it.
âMaybe we should.â
Although Matthew still canât hear any bells, heâs content to sit in the front of the boat and look around while Maarten steers them towards the supposed sound. They pass underneath the arched trees and into an open area, filled with sunlight.
And there, on the shore of a larger island, hidden behind trees, Matthew sees a building. It looks fairly old, but in good condition, with walls of multicolored stones and a roof of red tiles. A large weeping willow dips its yellow leaves into the water next to the building, where there is a small wooden dock. Matthew turns to Maarten, notepad at the ready, to ask him what the building is, but the man looks baffled, green eyes wide and fixed on the little island.
âThatâs where itâs cominâ from,â he mutters.
âThe bell?â
Maarten startles, looking as though he forgot Matthew was there. He nods, though.
âYou donât hear it?â
âNo.â
âOdd.â He frowns. âDo you mind if we goâŚâ
Of course, Matthew doesnât mind. If nothing else, a mysterious building that even a local doesnât know about will make an interesting little detour in his article.
Maarten drives the boat to the dock and ties it to a post there. Before he disembarks, he pushes on the wood, but it seems sturdy, so he climbs off the boat and starts walking to the building. Matthew follows, camera at the ready.
The building has two floors, and the windows are small but quite clearâMaarten is peering through one, his sharp nose nearly against the glass.
Following a gravel path, Matthew walks around the building a bit. There are even flower boxes on some windows, all empty right now, and the place seems deserted. Around the corner from the boat, on the short side of the building, Matthew finds a door. A small bell hangs over it, gleaming in the sunlight as if newly polished, that would surely chime if the door opened, but the door is locked. A name has been painted on the wood in elegant, white cursive.
âDoes this mean anything to you?â Matthew asks Maarten as he walks up. The man blinks at the name.
âYes.â He frowns, bemused. âVan der Meer was my motherâs name.â He tries the door handle and runs his fingers over the silver lock. âI think I⌠I think I might have the key to this place. At the shop.â
He meets Matthewâs eyes, and both of them are equally intrigued.
-
Of course, Matthew absolutely has to come with Maarten when he goes to try out the key that he has at his antique shop, the next day. Having explored the museum, there isnât a whole lot else left to do in town, anyway. He leaves Kuma with the B&B hostess again, having no idea what is inside the building.
The key is the same silver as the lock on the mysterious buildingâs door, but more than that, itâs shaped like a small bell.
âItâs always been there,â Maarten explains as he maneuvers his boat through the waterways. âIn the register. Always thought it was for something that was sold ages ago. Kept it just in case.â
âVery curious,â Matthew says. He canât wait to see if it works.
When they get to the door, Maarten reaches up and trails his long fingers over the name on it.
âFifteen years,â he mumbles. He lifts the key to the lock. Hesitates. Matthew waits patiently; he might need a moment. But then, Maarten turns to him and holds the key out.
âWhat?â
âGo ahead, Matthew.â A hint of a smile flits across his face. âIsnât that what journalism is all about?â
âEh, not my kind.â Matthew takes the key from him and releases a long breath. âAre you sure?â
âYes.â
He pushes the key into the lock, sharing a look with Maarten when it fits, and then, Matthew slowly turns it. Without a hitch, without a creak of age, the door unlocks.
âWhoâd have thought?â Matthew breathes. With a hand on the door handle, he looks at Maarten again.
âI wonder what this place is,â the antiquarian says. âI wonder if my mother knew.â
âLetâs find out.â
The door opens with, as expected, the gentle chime of the bell overhead, and they make their way inside. Itâs warmer here, the sunlight lighting up the space in bright yellow beams, dust swirling. The interior of the building doesnât match the outside; there is geometric wallpaper, shades of brown and green that remind Matthew of his childhood home, and a heavy wooden desk that incongruously has a Bakelite telephone sitting on it, along with a thin, leather-bound book.
Maarten lets out a long breath.
âLooks almost like a reception,â he says, walking slowly over to the desk. âIâve got a phone just like this at the shop.â
âPhones are antiques already?â Matthew asks him while he is cautiously opening the little book. Maarten chuckles, not looking up.
âCuriosities. Look at this.â
It does seem to be a log, maybe a ledger, of some sort, Matthew sees. The first entries are in old-fashioned cursive he has a hard time reading, but Maarten points the words out with ease, along with a date: 1888. The same year his store was founded.
âSo maybe⌠Your family came to the area then?â Matthew guesses. âOne person opened a shop, another opened thisâŚâ
He gestures vaguely around. Maarten hums.
âMight be.â He carefully flips to the last page that has entries, the handwriting more modern, listing expenses in ballpoint pen. 1978. Fifteen years ago.
âWhat does this mean?â Matthew wonders, as he pulls his notepad out to take some notes about the place heâs found himself at.
âI⌠Have no idea. Letâs look around.â
They stick together as they make their way to a door off the left side of the entrance, and find themselves in a well-appointed kitchen, again with green tiles just like there had been in Matthewâs parentsâ house. Itâs spacious, a large table taking up most room.
In the sunlight, the space looks inviting. Matthew can imagine the guests of this place having breakfast here. Heâs stayed in a lot of inns and hotels and B&Bs over the years heâs been a travel journalist, and would be quite happy if they looked like this.
âHuh,â Maarten is saying, having pushed aside one of the striped curtains beneath the kitchen counter and taken out an ornate serving dish. âThereâs one just like this at the shop. 1870s, very good condition.â
âOdd.â
âNot necessarily. They were pretty popular.â
They continue their exploration of the building by going out into a hallway behind the possible reception desk that spans the length of the ground floor. Matthew counts six doors in total, but when they try them one by one, they find them all locked.
âAlright, where would you keep the keys?â Maarten wonders.
âAt the reception, surely.â
The keys are indeed in a drawer of the desk, all on one big ring; some have the same little bell-shaped handle. That reminds Matthew.
âDo you still hear those bells?â Itâs how they got back here, after all.
Blinking, Maarten shakes his head. âIt stopped when⌠I think when you opened the door.â
That makes Matthew shiver. He was willing to accept that Maarten just has better hearing, but that seems like too weird of a coincidence. He quickly jots it down in his notepad. Maarten looks closely at one of the bell-shaped keys, frowning.
âStill wanna try these?â he asks.
âWell, weâre here now, arenât we?â Matthew shrugs. Itâs just an old⌠Inn, or hotel. If itâs haunted, it wouldnât be the first place heâs encountered, he thinks. Tourists love ghosts.
One of the bell keys fits a room labeled with the number one, and just as expected, it is a cozy little hotel room. Dust swirls in the sunlight here too, but there isnât actually much at all on the nightstands or the little vanity, and it smells just fineâMatthew swears he detects the faintest hint of potpourri. The bed is even made with cheerful floral linens.
âThis is nice,â Matthew says, but when he looks at Maarten, the man is frowning. âMaarten?â
âItâs getting really strange, now.â He walks over to a small wooden table thatâs next to the sink in the corner of the room. âIâve got one just like this.â
âAt your shop?â
Maarten looks at him and nods, expression baffled.
âSo thereâs more than one.â
âThatâs just it. There shouldnât be.â He peers at the table closely, even kneeling to inspect the underside. âAnd it doesnât look like a replica. If it is, itâs a damn good one.â
âSoâŚâ Matthew isnât sure what to make of that, so he winds up his camera and snaps a photo instead. The click of the shutter makes Maarten look up at him. Heâs right in a beam of sunlight, and his green eyes are bright. In his mint green windbreaker and sensible hiking shoes, he looks amusingly out of place.
âWell,â he says, standing, âletâs try those other doors.â
He hands the key ring to Matthew and gestures for him to go ahead.
The other five doors yield two more hotel rooms, a bathroom with a few shower and toilet cubicles, a laundry room, and, lastly, a set of stairs. The rooms also yield a plethora of random items Maarten recognizes as being at his shop, apparently never having soldâwhich he only now seems to realize is odd. A delicate glass lampshade here, a painting there; even a bulky transistor radio in the laundry room.
The two of them stand at the bottom of the stairs for a while. The steps are steep, wooden, and bathed in darkness; thereâs another door at the top. Maarten takes a deep breath, shoulders heaving.
âI donât know if I want to go up there,â he says. âNot⌠Yet.â
âAlright,â Matthew replies, even though heâs dying to learn what else this strange place holds. He is a journalist, after all. But something in Maartenâs deep voice makes him hold his tongue. The antiquarian clears his throat, turning to him.
âMaybe we can look around outside.â
Around the inn, there is an overgrown garden. Apart from the old weeping willow, there are pine trees and wild hedges surrounding barely-visible cobble paths that lead through what once must have been neat flowerbeds. They even find some benches, and a fountain, and a small, mostly-intact greenhouse. There are some markers still in the ground around, indicating which plants grew there.
âI bet this was lovely,â Matthew says, taking a picture of the moss-grown greenhouse. âThey must have used their crops in the kitchen.â
âYeah. Thatâs nice. You know, my mother was alwaysâŚâ Maarten sighs. âShe was always gardening. I helped her often when I was little.â
âDo you think, now, that she was here?â Matthew asks, following him back towards the little dock, and Maarten looks up at the building, eyebrows drawing together.
âMaybe,â he says. âMaybe, she never left.â
-
They make it back to town, and Matthew is surprised to find that it is dusky. It was still sunny when they left the inn, but he supposes they lost track of time out on the water.
Standing on the dock, Maarten looks down at him, clasping the back of his neck.
âThanks for coming,â he says. âI appreciateâhm. Iâm sure you got a lot of, uh, writinâ to do. So Iâllâhow long are you staying?â
Matthew only has his room for three more nights, but he says, âHowever long I need,â and Maarten lets out a long breath, nodding.
âIâll walk you to the B&B,â he offers. âOr⌠You know, I think we stayed out longer than I thought. Are you hungry?â
âPretty hungry.â
âLet me get you something to eat,â he says, a hesitant smile tugging at his full lips. Matthew bites his own lip and nods slowly. He still isnât entirely sure what to make of the antiquarian, whoâs friendly and open one moment and impossible to read the next, but dinner is always good.
Maarten takes him to get fried fish from a takeout place, and they eat it at the lakeside, while Matthew obligingly recounts some stories about places heâs visited for his job. When the foodâs gone, they walk to the bed & breakfast, where Matthew turns to Maarten on the small step out front of the old building.
âAre you going back tomorrow?â
âI think so. Will you come?â
âAs I said, however long it takes.â
âHm, of course, journalism.â Maarten smiles slightly. âI think you could probably bring your dog, right?â
That would be nice, so Matthew tells him as much, and promises to meet him at the dock.
-
Kuma sits quietly enough in the boat, but heâs excited when they disembark at the innâs dock, sniffing around the walls and jumping eagerly when Maarten opens the door. The antiquarian has brought a large backpack, which, he showed Matthew on the way, contains a serving dish identical to the one in the kitchen, as well as some smaller items he says are the same as one found at the inn.
Once in the kitchen, Kuma immediately lies down in a sunbeam, stretching happily, and Maarten puts his bag on the table to pull the dish out.
âWhat the hell?â he mutters.
Having retrieved the other dish from the cabinet, Matthew turns to see that the two now donât match at all. In the boat, the serving dish had glinted in the autumn sun, but now, itâs dull and tarnished. Especially next to the nearly-pristine one from the kitchen. Both Matthew and Maarten stare at the two items, dumbstruck. Maartenâs other items have similarly been affected, become rusted or tarnished.
âThatâs not normal,â Matthew eventually breathes. âI think this place is haunted or something.â
Maarten shakes his head. âThereâs no such thing.â He meets Matthewâs eye, frowning. There is, Matthew notices, a thin scar on his forehead that disrupts his furrowed brow slightly.
âThen whatâs happening?â Matthew asks. Maarten opens and closes his mouth. Breathes out slowly.
âBut it feelsâŚâ He looks down at Kuma, who tilts his head quizzically, tongue lolling out of his mouth. âIt feels nice.â
It does. Matthew sits on a kitchen chair in the sun, scritching Kuma behind the ears, and he can hear birds outside, the breeze rushing through the branches of the weeping willow.
âYou really donât know anything about the history of this place?â he asks. And then, the more obvious question occurs to him. âWait, what happened in 1978?â
Maarten leans on the table. He wets his lips and flexes his long fingers against the light wood. Hesitantly, Matthew touches his forearm, and the antiquarian looks at him.
âMy mother disappeared. October, 1978. Thatâs when I came back, took over the shop. I was barely twenty.â
âIâm sorry,â Matthew says softly. Kuma makes a small noise and rises up, padding over on the tiled floor to push his shaggy head against Maartenâs leg.
âShe left this note for me. Said sheâd gone out⌠To the lakes.â He shakes his head, smiling bitterly, although he reaches down to pet Kuma.
âAnd her name is here.â
âYeah. I donât know what to think, Matthew.â
âYou donât believeâŚâ Matthew wants to say âghostsâ, but it seems a little insensitive now, so he trails off, gesturing around, at which Maarten smiles bemusedly.
âI think, if I were to get haunted, itâd have happened before now. You donât wanna know how many people insist their antiques are full of spirits.â
Despite the strangeness of the whole thing, Matthew laughs, and Maarten smiles, looking down at the tarnished silver dish.
âI donât know what this place is, but I know I want to keep looking,â he says. âGuess I should thank you for asking to get out here in the first place.â
âHappy to help.â Matthew realizes he is still touching Maartenâs arm across the table. He leaves his fingers there, and neither of them move.
-
The B&B hostess seems concerned when Matthew mentions going out to the lakes with Mr Van Dijk again.
Yesterday, they had done some more exploring of the garden and found a generator, which Maarten said he couldnât make heads nor tails of, but Matthew was pretty sure was still in working order, given some fuel, and theyâd both agreed that the greenhouse looked usable given some cleaning.
Kuma never seemed concerned, and that is honestly good enough for Matthew; his dog has great instincts about dangerous places. The hostess, though, as sheâs serving his breakfast, frowns and shuffles her feet.
âTomorrow is your last day here,â she cautions. âSurely, there are better⌠Ventures?â
âDonât worry, I will write a great review of this place,â Matthew just says, which is, of course, not a reply to her question but does seem to placate her. And he has written a solid draft of his article already. It doesnât mention the mysterious inn on the lake.
Before he goes to the dock, Matthew stops at the local post office to send his draft off, along with his photo negatives. What to do tomorrow, is another question.
For now, they make their way through a foggy morning to the innâMaarten mentions that heâd wanted to let Matthew take a swing at driving the boat, but not with visibility so low. That would be nice, Matthew thinks. Heâs only ever been in charge of rowboats, or the occasional canoe.
The generator does, in fact, work, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, so do the innâs electric appliances and lights, even if they are all pretty old.
With the fog clearing, Matthew and Maarten go around opening windows and doors and taking stock of what exactly is in the kitchen and the bathroom. Then Matthew, much to his delight, gets to climb up on the roof to check the tiles and the chimney, and Maarten said heâd go see what he could do about the greenhouse, but instead heâs by the wooden ladder every time Matthew checks, keeping an eye on him.
And that is also nice, really. People donât tend to notice him much. It is useful as a journalist, sometimes, getting to be an observer, but other times, itâs good to know someoneâs watching. Especially if that someone is a handsome, mysterious antiquarian.
He smiles gratefully at Maarten when he gets back down, and the man ducks his head, clasping the back of his neck.
âAll good up there,â Matthew adds. âIt should be safe to use the stove.â
âI do! My family has a cabin up in the mountains with a wood stove just like it.â
âGreat.â Maarten smiles, a little melancholic, but doesnât say anything else. Hesitatingly, Matthew reaches out to briefly clasp his upper arm, then turns to go inside.
Later, as they are cleaning up the greenhouse a bit, Matthew mentions that he only has one night left at the B&B, and that makes Maarten pause in his scrubbing one of the glass panes overhead. Heâs straddling a stepladder, and peers down at Matthew with his hands resting on his strong thighs.
âFeel like Iâve kept you from your work,â he eventually says.
âI got plenty done,â Matthew assures him, pushing his glasses up. Outside, Kuma is happily playing around in the garden, probably getting his white fur unreasonably dirty. âBesides, Iâve kept you from yours as well, then.â
Maarten hums. Wipes his hands on his jeans.
âWhere will you be going next, then?â he asks, quite softly.
âNowhere fast. I mean, if youâre⌠Not getting sick of me. Thereâs a lot more here, I think.â
At that, Maarten just gazes down at him with those bright green eyes, as if heâs trying to suss him out. Matthew doesnât think heâs a complicated person, but Maarten looks nearly bewildered.
âSurely, you got something to get back to.â
âNothing that canât wait a bit.â Everyone at home is pretty used to him being gone for considerable stretches of time.
Maarten nods slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
âOf course,â he says. âJournalism.â
âHonestly? This is the most interesting thing thatâs ever happened to me.â
âYeah,â Maarten agrees. And then, âAlright, which room do you want?â
âWhichâ Oh! I hadnâtâŚâ
âItâs fine if youâd rather not. You know, haunted and all. But it is an inn.â
Actually, that sounds like a very good idea, so Matthew tells Maarten he isnât picky about the room. Maybe, heâll let Kuma pick one; heâs got good instincts, after all.
-
It is later than Matthew would have guessed when they return to town, but thatâs alright. On the step out front of the B&B once more, Maarten asks him if he is sure heâd like to stay.
âPeople donât tend to⌠Stick around town.â He laughs dryly. âOr around me.â
âWell, maybe they werenât the right people,â Matthew replies, and shrugs helplessly when Maarten meets his eye, lips parted. The man doesnât say anything, just nods, and touches Matthewâs arm, before he disappears into the night.
-
Itâs easy, somehow, to lose track of time out on the lakes.
One day, Matthew is hauling his luggage into room 3, Kuma unhelpfully racing around his legs, and then another day, heâs taking Maarten into the woods to go mushroom foraging, and then he finally gets to drive the boat, after some instruction, back to town, where the B&B lady looks astonished to see him.
âMore reporting to do,â he tells her, on his way to buy some rolls of film.
âMoreâ?â She hurries after him. âMr Williams, I have received some calls asking for you. Your employers, I think?â
âIâll be backâŚâ He wants to say âsoonâ, but feels strange putting an end date on his time at the inn. His time with Maarten. âBut if my brother ever calls, please tell him Iâve found my thing. Heâll know. His nameâs Alfred. Jones, not Williams.â
âMr WilliamsâŚâ
The town looks different, now. Less colorful, compared to the vibrant trees and cozy rooms at the inn. Even Maartenâs orange boat seems brighter once Matthew passes underneath the archway of trees. Theyâve started losing their leaves, but still hide the inn from view well.
He finds Maarten in the garden plot, digging into the damp earth with floral gardening gloves and narrating, seemingly to Kuma, what crops he could plant where. The dog sits and listens obligingly. He likes Maarten.
Well, Matthew likes Maarten too. He seemed a little⌠Aloof, at first, but bit by bit, he keeps showing bits of wonder, and when his rare smiles reach his eyes, it feels like some sort of breakthrough.
Kuma notices Matthew first, bounding over to him for pets. Maarten looks up. Smiles. There is a smudge of dirt on his face.
âTown still standing?â he asks.
âStill there. Your store is alright.â
âAlright.â He hasnât seemed too concerned about the antiques shop. Now, he gestures at the garden and starts his impassioned narration again.
-
Time keeps slipping by, it seems, in leaps and bounds, and Matthew canât say how long itâs actually been but itâs started to snow, and the lake has started to freeze. Theyâve made sure to get enough supplies, in case the waterways become impassable.
âAre you sure you want to stay?â Maarten asks, as he stands by a kitchen window, drying dishes and looking at the cloudy sky, while Matthew tends to the wood stove. His hair has grown, and the bleached ends have been cut off so itâs now all its natural dark blond, though still spiked up severely.
âI donât see why not,â Matthew tells him, and he turns, holding the dishtowel with both hands.
âYouâve got a job. You have⌠Family.â
âItâs not been that long, Maarten. If you want me goneââ
âI donât,â he says quickly. And, softer, barely audible over the wood crackling, âI promise you, I donât, Matthew.â
âIt just feels right,â Matthew says. He knows, when Maarten nods, that he gets it. Something about this place feels like exactly where theyâre both supposed to be.
Still, as time slips by and they fall into a comfortable routine, neither of them goes up the stairs.
Matthew doesnât have a reason not to, but Maarten is apprehensive, and he respects that. It does seem to be his building, after all, even if no official documents can be found in town, or indeed at Maartenâs store, about it even being built.
When Matthew comments on this, one day as they stand on the shore of the frozen lake, Maarten turns to him and looks down over the edge of his striped scarf for a long while, the tip of his nose red with cold.
âItâs yours too,â he eventually says, muffled through fabric. âFor however long you want.â
He reaches for Matthew with his bare fingers. Hesitates. Matthew clasps his hand between both of his own and nods silently.
In different ways, he thinks theyâve both been lonely, and this strange place on the lake that seems so oddly suspended in time, so out of place yet completely at home, was exactly what they needed.
The strange place, or, perhaps, the company.
-
It doesnât seem like a lot of time has passed, but Matthew finds himself learning Maartenâs little quirks; his tendency to sing odd little songs while he cleans, his elaborate bathtime routine, the very particular way he wants things arranged in the kitchen.
Heâs a little surprised that Maarten, in return, knows exactly where heâs left his glasses every time he loses them, and how he takes his coffee, and when to pry him away from his latest project so he can eat.
The snow has gone in what feels like the blink of an eye, and Maartenâs crops are doing well, when Matthew finds the man at the foot of the stairs one day, key in hand.
He closes his eyes when Matthew touches his back, pressing his palm to his spine as heâs taken to doing. It seems every time that something slows when they touch. That it gets a little easier to breathe. Kuma curiously nudges Maartenâs leg, which makes the man smile.
He turns to Matthew. âI feel likeâŚâ He jerks his chin at the stairwell, trailing off.
âKuma seems unconcerned,â Matthew says, his hand slipping to Maartenâs arm.
âYeah. MattâŚâ He holds the key out to him without another word, and their fingers touch for much too long when Matthew takes it. He doesnât ask if Maartenâs sure, because Matthew has learned by now that Maarten doesnât do things heâs not sure about.
He quietly climbs the narrow staircase, the wood creaking under his weight. Kuma waits by Maartenâs side while Matthew fits the key into the lock, turns it, and opens the final door of the inn.
Itâs⌠A room.
Just a room in the same style as the rest of the place, except this one feels lived in. There are books and photographs and paintings. A lounge chair by a modest fireplace, a record player, a large bed behind a beaded curtain underneath the slanted roof. There is even a small gas camping stove with a tea kettle on it. Itâs nice.
Matthew pokes his head back through the doorway.
âNothing unusual here,â he says, and Maartenâs shoulders sag. With a deep breath, the antiquarian starts to climb up too.
Kuma, with a delighted bark, races around the room before immediately lying down on the woven rug by the hearth. Maarten walks around the space, which spans the whole length of the building, fingertips dragging over furniture and windowsills.
âI donât know what I thought,â he says softly.
Matthew has some ideas, mostly as they relate to his motherâs disappearance, but doesnât voice them. Instead, he smiles when Maarten turns to him. The man inclines his head.
âThank you, Matthew.â
âOf course!â He pushes his glasses up. âJournalism, remember?â
At that, Maarten smiles and shakes his head, coming closer. His fingertips now gently brush over Matthewâs wrist, his forearm, and he seems to be lost for words when Matthew meets his green eyes. His mouth opens and closes. Matthew swallows.
âWell, hey,â he says a little awkwardly, âyouâll have an actual living room, now.â
âHm, we will.â Maarten seems to realize what heâs said, eyes widening. âOr, wellâif you want that.â
âI⌠I do, Maarten.â Matthew touches his chest, running a hand up to his collar. He finds that his heartbeat thrums fast underneath the warm skin of his neck, just like Matthewâs own. âIâd love to.â
Maarten only nods, and when Matthew touches his jaw, he bends forward.
Time seems static for a moment, suspended as though in a sunbeam, and then Matthew reaches up and kisses him, finally and yet so soon. He swears he can hear a bell chime when their lips brush, but the sound is lost instantly when Maarten makes a wonderful, breathy noise and pulls him close, winding his arms around him as Matthew clings to his neck. Just like this place, it feels right, to stand there in the living room, exchanging slow kisses as if theyâve been doing it for years. Maybe they have been, or should have been. Thatâs what it feels like, in a sure way that makes Matthew shiver.
Slowly, Maarten pulls back to look at him, a flush on his cheeks that somehow smooths all his harsh angles. Matthew smiles, and he laughs softly, ducking his head.
âGlad youâre here,â he mumbles, pressing his lips to Matthewâs temple.
âYeah. Me too.â
-
They have even more to explore nowâeach other, for one, but also the room. It becomes abundantly clear quickly that Maartenâs mother must have lived here for a while, possibly after she disappeared. There are photographs Maarten recognizes, of his parents and grandparents, even one of him as a grumpy toddler that makes Matthew laugh and tease him until Maarten kisses him silent. They listen to the records they find in a cupboard. Mostly things from the â60s and â70s. They open the windows while Maarten smokes in bed, and Kuma claims the lounge chair as his own.
Matthew thinks he means to go visit home, to pick up his things, to see his family and tell them about Maartenâtheyâll be so happy for himâbut every time, it seems, something comes up at the inn or in town, and he thinks it canât have been that long anyway, and it doesnât seem so important for a while. However long âa whileâ really is.
Maarten starts working in the garden again. Matthew climbs up on the roof once more when a bird decides to nest in the chimney. This time, much to his delight, Maarten embraces him tightly as soon as he steps off the ladder, and just hums when Matthew assures him all is well. He is, it turns out, almost comically afraid of heights, barely able to listen to Matthewâs stories about his home in the mountains without shuddering.
âBut Iâll come along if you want me,â he tells him anyway, and Matthew grins. There are so many things to show him.
Sometimes, when Matthew goes into townâMaarten hardly goes after a whileâit will seem as though no time has passed at all since the previous trip, but other times, the seasons donât even seem to line up, and it is disorienting.
But then, every time he gets back, it wonât seem so important.
And sometimes, out there on the lake, he hears those bells just like Maarten said back in the autumn.
He writes more notes, although heâs not sure what for, and takes pictures he doesnât get developed. But thatâs okay. It just doesnât seem very important.
In the spring, they finally finish cleaning the greenhouse, and Maarten scolds Kuma for trying to eat some ducklings right before playing fetch with him on the lakeshore as Matthew watches from a kitchen window. He finds Maarten sketching sometimes, most often in ballpoint pen; he does pretty impressive depictions of the inn and the lake, of Kuma curled up in the sun.
In another time, Maarten says, he might have become a newspaper illustrator, and they might have worked together.
Matthew takes to hiking to look at birds, and fishing in the lake while Maarten putters in the garden. Kuma tends to scare the fish away, but occasionally, Matthew will catch something they can eat.
Then, it must be summer, although surely it cannot have been that long. The trees are densely, vibrantly green, and Matthew swims in the lake, splashing around with Kuma while Maarten reads one of his motherâs books on a garden bench. He makes them lunch with vegetables from the garden and tugs Matthew into the shower after Kuma shakes himself off and gets them both drenched.
They discuss many plans in the bed under the slanted beams of the roof, tangled together with the windows open and Kuma snoring in his chair. Plans to go to the mountainsâeven if Matthew will have to hold Maartenâs hand the whole timeâto see Matthewâs family, to raise chickens or maybe another dog. To, one day, re-open the inn. Add âWilliamsâ to the door.
But those are all for later. Right now, Matthew is happy, and it never seems very important anyway.
-
On the day they realize itâs autumn, with the forest quite suddenly a picture-perfect riot of golds and reds, Kuma runs away.
He swims away, in fact, leaving both Matthew and Maarten to hurry after him in the boat. Matthew keeps trying to coax the dog back, to no avail. Kuma seems only to want to get away. Heâs going quickly towards town.
Unexpectedly, the boat hits a tangle of driftwood and canât continue, and Maarten hurriedly drives to shore so they can follow Kuma on foot, still calling out.
âHeâs never done this before!â Matthew says, nearly in tears when they canât seem to get through the underbrush.
âNo, itâsââ Maarten jerks, looking up. âDid you hear that?â
âKuma?â
âNo, itâs⌠The bells.â
âThe bells? Maarten, I donât care about the bells!â
âIâof course.â
They continue to try and find the dog, to find their way off the lake, for what feels like hours. They have no luck. There is always something blocking the way. Brush, or water, or a hole, and Matthew can hear the bells as well, now. Theyâre chiming from the direction of the inn, and theyâre louder than they ever have been.
âWhy do you think he ran?â Maarten asks softly. Both of them are sitting despondently in the boat.
Matthew shakes his head, removing his glasses to rub his tired eyes. Itâs getting dark. He tucks his knees between Maartenâs, and they sit quietly for a while, the bells chiming.
âI think his instincts told him something,â Matthew eventually says. âSomething about this place changed.â
With a sigh, Maarten nods. They drive back to the inn.
Itâs as lovely as ever, but seems too silent, now. Maarten traces his fingers over the name on the front door, and sighs again when Matthew embraces him from behind and leans his forehead against the manâs neck.
The bells still sound, now and again, close but not from the building itself.
âYou know, I never knew my grandma,â Maarten says. âOn my motherâs side, at least. 1948, Iâve been told she left. Grandpa supposedly died in â63. There are pictures of them here.â He turns abruptly in Matthewâs arms. âIâm sorry, Matt.â
âNo. Remember what I said? Youâre the most interesting thing thatâs ever happened to me.â
âI donât think thatâs what you said,â Maarten replies softly.
âI just didnât realize it yet.â
He breathes out slowly, eyes closing. Matthew watches him, arms around his waist. Eventually, Maarten reaches up to card his long fingers through Matthewâs unruly curlsâlonger now, than they ever have been. Itâs familiar, the way he brushes over his scalp, tucks his hair behind his ear.
âSo, what now?â he asks. âIf Kuma doesnât come backâŚâ
Honestly, Matthew hopes he doesnât. He hopes Kuma makes it back to town and stays there, safe and sound. He says as much. Maarten nods sadly. Kisses him. They go inside.
They both know that it is their last night, although neither is sure exactly what that means. Matthew orders all his notes and rolls of film, and some of Maartenâs sketches. Maarten diligently updates the ledger and tidies the inn. Maybe, itâll take fifteen years for these things to be found. Maybe, since Maarten has no more family, they will never be discovered at all.
âYou have me,â Matthew tells him, pressing him into the mattress, because, after all, it is their last night. âNo matter what, you have me, and itâs been amazing.â
âI love you,â he whispers, and for a brief moment, the bells seem to pause.
âIâI love you, too.â That, at least, is important. Has always been important.
The next day, they consider going out to look for Kuma again, just in case, but a heavy fog has descended on the lake and the bells are louder than ever.
Matthew stands next to Maarten at the end of the dock. Maarten reaches down and tangles their fingers together.
âFollow the bells?â he asks.
âFollow the bells.â Matthew tugs at his hand so that he leans over and kisses him. âWherever they make take us this time.â
âJournalism, huh?â
âAnd what a story I have.â Matthew smiles wryly.
âGlad to have been part of it.â Maarten squares his shoulders. Squeezes Matthewâs fingers.
They step forward, off the dock and into the mist.
originally I wrote this for lietweek, it just ended up being not as much about Liet as I wanted, but it's still a fun little fic! bc I'm always amused picturing characters interacting with whoever they're alphabetically next to, and this is an especially interesting bunch :)
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Liaisons
characters: Latvia, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Moldova and Monaco
word count: 2193
summary:
A series of silly snapshots of the European meeting table around the letter L, AKA Lithuania is surrounded by teenagers.
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âItâs quite busy around here, isnât it?â
Lithuania watches as Luxembourg sets his briefcase down and takes the seat next to him at the meeting table.
âI suppose so,â he replies, and Luxembourg smiles, pulling papers out of his case.
âItâs good to see you again, Lithuania.â
They havenât met many times before, pan-European meeting not really having existed before the Second World War, but Lithuania recalls Luxembourg being quick-witted yet polite, so he nods.
âItâs good to be back.â
Latvia and Liechtenstein arrive at the same time, chatting quietly about something, which makes Lithuania smile. Itâs nice to see Latvia relaxed after all these years of tension. He even pulls Liechtensteinâs chair back for her, which makes her laugh kindly as she sits on Lithuaniaâs other side.
âGood afternoon, Lithuania,â she says.
âGood afternoon.â
âLiech!â Luxembourg says, reaching around front of Lithuania and pulling an exaggerated sad face. âYouâre so far away.â
âFinally,â she just says, laughing again and meeting Lithuaniaâs eye with amusement. They must have gotten quite used to each otherâs presence, these past fifty or so years. Lithuania turns to Luxembourg and raises his eyebrows.
âAnd am I not good enough?â
Luxembourg narrows his eyes at him, probably trying to figure out if heâs joking. Lithuania smiles.
âWeâll see, I suppose,â Luxembourg says haughtily. Itâs only ruined a little bit by Netherlands patting his head as he walks by.
-
Liechtenstein, somehow, knows all the gossip of the continent. While Lithuania canât say he has any real interest in the personal lives of his fellow nations, Latvia apparently does, and so does Luxembourg, so he gets quite a lot of it during meetings, anyway.
Honestly, it reminds him of Polandâs incessant gossiping, and in its own way, thatâs quite comforting after all this time. As long as Poland doesnât expect him to remember any of the gossip.
Even Moldova, who seems to be getting taller every time Lithuania sees him, has started to join in from Luxembourgâs other side over the years. Luxembourg had been much dismayed to learn that Monaco was now also far away. No one really knows where Malta is, most of the time.
âI heard Belarus broke your fingers,â Liechtenstein is telling Lithuania now. Really? That rumor again?
âNah, thatâs old news,â Latvia says, unimpressed.
âNo, itâsâthat didnât even happen, Lat! Poland was exaggerating.â
Latvia just looks over at him, expression never changing, and Luxembourg is laughing.
âI never hear anything interesting about you, Lithuania,â Liechtenstein laments.
âI suppose Iâm just not very interesting,â Lithuania says, which gets him a shrewd look from beneath her blond fringe. Heâs suddenly quite wary of her, tiny as she is.
âNo, Iâm sure Latvia has plenty of stories about you,â Luxembourg puts in from his other side, and Latvia actually grins.
âNo, he doesnât!â Heâs surrounded by younger siblings, Lithuania realizesâhe could even count Latvia as his own brother if he felt like it, although it seems less relevant now. All the gossiping suddenly makes sense. Itâs probably a good thing Belarus is all the way over there⌠Even if sheâs next to Belgium.
Luckily, Slovakia has finally set up his projector at the front of the room, and so Latvia doesnât have time to say anything incriminating as they all fall silent to listen to his presentation.
âI donât know. Iâm missing Liechtenstein.â Lithuania ducks away when Latvia tries to poke him in the side. Itâs the first time theyâre in an EU meeting, both of them, and although the meeting table is smaller, the nations present seem to be making up for it by being even louder than is the norm.
Lithuania catches Estoniaâs eye from where heâs sat, as usual, between Denmark and Finlandâat least when Englandâs representing the whole UKâto find that heâs actually putting headphones on to drown out his neighbors basically yelling at each other. Estonia just shrugs. Heâs always been good at ignoring the ruckus around him. Itâs because heâs so damn old, Lithuania thinks, which also explains a lot of things about Monaco.
âNo way! Maltaâs here,â Latvia says, as the elusive nation enters the room.
âOh, right.â Luxembourg sounds almost disappointed, and he shrugs when Lithuania shoots him a questioning glance. âIâve gotten quite attached to Moldova, I guess. But at least I donât have to sit next to this guy anymore.â
He gestures over at Netherlands, who just sends him a flat look and says, âLike Malta will ever show up again. Youâre stuck with me, Lux.â
Luxembourg sticks his tongue out at his brother in a move that seems so at odds with his sophisticated persona that it makes Lithuania laugh out loud.
When that causes Luxembourg to stick his tongue out his way, he says, âYouâre lucky Liechtenstein isnât here.â
She likes to remind all of her alphabetical neighbors that sheâs older than them; a few times, Monaco has even joined in, scolding them for the silliest things. Lithuania thinks Moldova does weird things on purpose, because it amuses him.
âWelcome, everyone,â Belgium calls, just as Malta takes a seat. âAnd welcome, new membersâDenmark, please shut up.â
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Just as he almost tips forward on to the table, Lithuania is startled by Liechtenstein shaking his shoulder. He blinks at her, and she smiles.
The meeting is running very late. Even though Lithuania is sure he has spent much longer stretches of time awake in his life, most of those times werenât spent in a warm room, sitting in a moderately comfortable chair. Itâs much easier to keep your eyes open when youâre on a battlefield, or under siege. Some time ago, Germany announced a break, although Lithuania canât say now when exactly that had been. Right now, Latvia is in Montenegroâs seat, talking to Netherlandsâprobably about poetry, which, oddly enough, theyâve bonded over.
âShould I getââ Liechtenstein starts, but Lithuania gets startled again by a hand on his other shoulder, and then Moldova is leaning over next to him to slam a cup of coffee on the table. He grins and flops down in Luxembourgâs chair. The nation is all gangly limbs now; Latvia has been complaining that Moldova is taller than him since 2006.
âYou look like you could use some caffeine,â he says.
âThank you, Moldova.â Lithuania inhales the scent of coffee gratefully.
âExcuse me,â Luxembourg says indignantly from behind him, âwhat are you doing in my chair?â
Moldova swivels to him, still grinning.
âIâm expanding,â he replies, and he spreads his hands. âThe Moldovan Empire, what do you think?â
âItâs really not all that itâs cracked up to be, you know,â Lithuania tells him. Moldova blinks.
âBeing an empire?â
âHm. Just⌠Being big.â Heâd take having to drink many cups of coffee over a battlefield any day. A hundred years ago, he might have felt differently, but Lithuania knows the value of peace.
âThatâs not what Bulgaria says. He keeps telling me about his glory days.â
âYes, well.â Lithuania sips his coffee and watches with quiet amusement while Luxembourg wheels Moldova out of the way.
-
In the middle of Austriaâs speech, Lithuania finds a slip of paper pushed in front of him.
Latvia says youâre good at English. Can you please look over my speech? Okay if not. Moldova.
The note is in Russian, and Lithuania can see Luxembourg squinting at it, but he has no idea whether the nation actually speaks Russian. He scribbles an answer, telling Moldova heâll help during lunch break, and slides the note back towards Luxembourg, who passes it to Moldova.
When the break comes, Moldova nervously hands Lithuania a hand-written draft of his speech.
âIt used to be that we just fought each other,â Lithuania tells him, smoothing the paper down. Sitting on the table, Moldova kicks his legs out.
âYeah, no one ever asked me to do that. I looked like I was ten.â
Lithuania chuckles. âAlright, fair enough. Iâll warn you; America keeps telling me my English is old-fashioned.â
âThatâs alright. I tried asking Romania for help, and I think he quoted Shakespeare at me.â He frowns. âIt was that, or some kind of magic spell.â
âYou never really know,â Lithuania agrees. He looks over the speech, correcting some mistakes and helping Moldova with some phrasings and pronunciations. Heâs aware that, unlike most other European nations, his English tends to sound very American. Since he was the one who taught the language to both other Baltics and Ukraine, theyâve picked up a lot of the same quirks. Russia was not a fan of that, and Lithuania is a little proud that Moldova might be next on that list.
Moldova insists on buying him lunch as a thank-you. Itâs nice, to be able to help.
As they head back to the meeting hall, Moldova briefly hooks his arm through Lithuaniaâs.
âThanks!â he says brightly, and rushes to his seat.
-
âYou know, we should go out sometime,â Lithuania hears Liechtenstein tell Latvia as everyone is entering the room. âMe and Lux and Mona used to, but it got so busy.â
âOh yes,â Luxembourg agrees as he walks over to them. No one is sitting down yet, clustering around in small groups.
âI donât think weâdâŚâ Latvia trails off, and Liechtenstein smiles earnestly at him.
Moldova and Monaco, who have linked their arms together for some reason, approach their little group. Luxembourg laughs at them, and they both kick his shins. He swears under his breath.
âWe should go out again,â Monaco says, evidently having overheard as well. âItâll be⌠What do the humans call it? Team bonding.â
âMonaco, thatâs very nice, but I donât think we would⌠Fit in,â Lithuania says. She looks up at him while Moldova fidgets next to her.
âOh, nonsense!â she says, waving a perfectly manicured hand. âLuxembourg does great karaoke, do you know?â
âOh no,â says Latvia, while Moldova squints speculatively up at Luxembourg, âI had enough karaoke to last a lifetime in the nineties.â
âYeah, Estonia went a bit overboard,â Lithuania recalls.
âStill!â Liechtenstein enthuses. âWe could go to a bar!â
Moldova says, âIâve never been to a bar.â And, in response to everyoneâs looks, âI looked like I was ten.â
He still doesnât really look old enough to go to a bar, but then again, neither do Latvia or Liechtenstein, who both proclaim immediately that they want to take him to one. Lithuania shares a concerned look with Luxembourg as the three of them conspire.
âWell,â Luxembourg says, âshe is older than both of us.â
Monaco just huffs, somehow elegantly.
-
âYou look bad,â Estonia says as Lithuania passes in front of him. Denmark and Finland both look up as well.
âOh, youâre one to talk,â Lithuania says reflexively, not stopping on his way to his seat. He hears Finland laugh over Estoniaâs indignant splutter.
France, just sitting down, says, âI think you look very handsome, Lithuania.â
He doesnât, but it feels nice anyway. Apparently, the amount of alcohol his tiny alphabetical neighbors can put away in an evening, is enough to make even his head ache. He knew this about Latvia, of course, but even Liechtenstein, even Monaco could out-drink him.
Next to Latvia at the table, the Italy brothers are yelling at each other, as per usual, but Latvia seems perfectly fine, scribbling in a notebook while Netherlands leans over next to him and listens with interest. Luxembourg, with his head resting on the table, seems to be trying to shield himself from both his brother and Moldova, who is chipper as ever and playing cards with Monaco. Monaco is wearing sunglasses, but Lithuania isnât sure whether theyâre a fashion statement or a protective measure. He does think Moldova might be cheating at their game by looking at the reflection of her cards in the glasses.
âTeam bonding, huh?â he asks as he sits down, and Luxembourg glares up at him with one green eye.
âYeah, and Iâm not,â Lithuania adds miserably. He wishes that stereotype was true right now.
âAlright. Sorry.â Luxembourg winces when his brother pats him on the head as he passes, like usual.
Latvia starts explaining his latest poetry to Liechtenstein.
âIâm changing my name,â Luxembourg says. âI want different neighbors. Not you, Lithuania. You can come along.â
âThatâs nice. But what better options are there?â The question is mostly a joke, but Luxembourg lifts his head and looks around the European meeting table appraisingly, causing Lithuania to do the same.
Belgium and Belarus are already bent together and probably gossiping again; Austria looks terrified. Finland is still laughing at Estonia, somehowâand good riddance, Lithuania thinksâwhile France is leaning so close to Germany that Germany is nearly falling into Greece to avoid him. On their other side, Poland is having a conversation with Portugal and Romania that looks far too conspiratorial for Lithuaniaâs liking, and Russia is frowning at the three of them.
âYou know,â Luxembourg says eventually, âI actually kind of like it here.â
âYeah,â Lithuania agrees. âLetâs not tell Malta, though.â
I cheated a bit, in that the sentence is in there, but it's in Dutch. Here's a weirdly horny fairytale set in 1974, because ÂŻ\_(ă)_/ÂŻ (It's not explicit, honestly it's barely even mature, but just so you know, I guess!)
Maarten is Ned & Matthew, of course, is Can. And if some of Ned's lines seem slightly grammatically wonky: that is on purpose! It's realism...in this fairytale c:
Send me a pairing and a number and I'll write you a fic!
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Dark clouds were massing on the horizon where the sky met the sea. Maarten eyed them from the beach, more annoyed than anything. If it was going to rain, he couldnât paint out here, and he didnât think it would even be worth it to get his canvas out.
Well, he could at least do some sketches. Summer storms always looked very impressive.
For a while, Maarten lost himself in the feel of charcoal smudging on paper. He roughed in the waves, the clouds, the dunes he could see out of the corner of his eye, until the skies got too dark for his comfort. He packed up his supplies and lit a cigarette as he hoisted his bag over his shoulder.
Turning to go, Maarten nearly dropped everything again.
Between the dunes, there was a man, standing quietly, with blond curls flying every which way as the wind picked up. The tall grass waved around his bare knees. There were scraps of what once must have been nice clothes clinging to him, and he was looking straight at Maarten.
âGodsamme, je laat me schrikken! Hoelang sta je daar al?â
The man frowned, and Maarten cautiously stepped a little closer. He looked fairly young, maybe in his mid-twenties.
âHĂŠ, gaat het wel goed met je?â Maarten asked him.
âSorry, I donâtâŚâ
âSpreek je Nederlands?â Taking a drag of his cigarette, Maarten surmised, âYou donât speak Dutch?â
âDutch,â the man echoed wonderingly, and shook his head. His voice was soft enough that Maarten stepped even closer, sand whirling about his feet.
âAre you okay?â he asked, repeating his earlier question. âDo you need help?â
âNo,â the man replied. He took a few steps towards the beach, out of the grass. âSorry. I didnât realize Iâd come so far.â
âSo far from where?â Maarten swore when he felt a fat raindrop hit his head, and the strange man lifted his eyebrows.
âThe other side.â
âLook, if youâre going to be cryptic, I donât have time for that.â He started walking briskly down the beach to where he could cross the dunes, not really caring if the man followed or not.
The man did; by the time Maarten reached his bungalow just on the other side of the dunes, luckily still mostly dry, he was right behind him, seeming more curious than anything. Maarten glanced at him as he opened his backdoor, and his attention was caught by the manâs eyes. They were a bright, vibrant purple that surely couldnât be real. He blinked, and the man blinked back. His eyes stayed purple.
Swearing once more, Maarten went inside his house and left the door open. Honestly, his life could use a little mystery.
He put his art supplies in their proper place in the living room, and when he finished, the strange man was standing in his kitchen. His clothes were barely more than rags.
âReally. What happened to you?â Maarten asked.
âI came a long way.â
âFrom where? Whatâs your name?â Maybe heâd been in a shipwreck. It seemed as good a guess as any, although he seemed pretty calm if that was the case.
âIâve been called Matthew. When I was in Canada.â
Now even more confused, Maarten continued to stare at him and his strange eyes, as rain started beating against the windows. Surely, people in Canada didnât have eyes like that either? Heâd met Canadians before. Theyâd seemed perfectly normal to him.
âIâm⌠Maarten,â he eventually just said. He looked down at Matthewâs tattered clothes, and noticed, in the dim light, that there were shapes on the pale skin underneath, silvery-blue lines curving over his arms, his legs, even his face. They were faint, and didnât make sense. Very little about this made sense.
âSo, when you say you were in Canada⌠How did you come here?â
Matthew tilted his head, curls falling into his face as something almost like amusement flickered in his eyes.
âIt was quite a long swim.â
âOkay. Okay. Fantastisch.â Maarten turned and pushed the beaded curtain aside to return to his living room so he could get another cigarette. He lit it and started to pace around his coffee table.
âYou seem upset,â Matthew observed, peeking through the curtain. He sounded amused too.
âIâm not upset. Iâm confused.â Maarten stopped in front of him, looking downâMatthew was tall, but Maarten was taller. He usually was.
âI donât think Iâm confusing.â His voice remained soft, almost melodious.
âGood. Great. Do you need new clothes?â It was easiest to focus on things he understood, Maarten decided. And he understood that Matthew, whoever he was, was very nearly nude. While Maarten had no problem with nude men, he preferred them in different circumstances.
âNeed is a strong word,â said Matthew, âbut Iâve been told it upsets people if I donât wear any.â
Nodding, Maarten beat a hasty retreat to his bedroom, where he lit another cigarette and found a pair of old shorts and a short-sleeved shirt he thought might fit his mysterious⌠Guest. Back in the living room, he found Matthew peering at one of his paintings, shirtless. The lines swirled around his back, too, and disappeared beneath the rags clinging to his hips. His arms and legs looked muscular. They probably had to be, if one were to swim across the Atlantic.
Maarten cleared his throat.
âYouâre an artist,â Matthew said, turning.
âYes.â Maarten took a deep drag and breathed out smoke. âWhat are you?â
âIâm⌠A traveler.â
 Apart from the mysterious lines and strange eyes, he looked perfectly human. He had a sharp nose and broad chest, even a hint of stubble on his chin. A traveler. Fair enough.
âIâve been a traveler. Here.â Maarten handed the clothes to him.
Shrugging the orange shirt over his shoulders, Matthew reached for what remained of his pants, which once must have been slacks, of all things. Maarten blinked, cleared his throat again, and quickly looked away.
âSo, what brings you here?â he asked, facing one of his macramĂŠ plant holders. Matthew rustled behind him.
âI get tired of the sea.â
Right, because that was where he lived.
The rustling stopped, and Maarten peeked. The shirt wasnât buttoned up, and the shorts hung low on Matthewâs hips. It was difficult not to look at the shape of his hipbones leading down to the fly of the pants.
âSo I wanted to come and see what was on this side of the ocean,â Matthew finished, seeming unconcerned by the staring.
âAlright. Well, IâmâIâm not sure Iâm the right person to help you with that.â Maarten met his eye. âI donât go out much, nowadays.â
He tilted his head. âBut you used to?â
âI used to. But now Iâm here, and I paint.â
For a long moment, Matthew just peered up at him, those violet eyes contemplative, but eventually, he nodded.
âThen, I will find my way. Thank you.â
âAlright.â
When Matthew left, stepping into the pouring rain, Maarten didnât think he would ever see him again. Honestly, he wasnât sure he hadnât imagined the whole thing. If he was going to hallucinate anything, he supposed it would be a nearly-unclothed man emerging from the North Sea.
Just two weeks later, he was proven wrong.
On a crisp day at the tail end of summer, Maarten was painting the boats he could see out on the water, although framed by the menacing clouds from weeks before; there was nothing interesting about a clear blue sky, pleasant though it was.
When he glanced at the sea again, Maarten was startled to see a familiar figure walking out of the surf, somehow completely dry. Matthewâs blond curls shone like gold in the sunlight. He was still wearing Maartenâs clothes, the shirt now buttoned up.
âYouâre back, huh?â Maarten said to him as he neared. Matthew smiled, obviously amused.
âIt was nice here.â He sat down a few meters away from Maarten, bare feet in the loose sand of the dunes.
âIt was raining a lot last time you were here.â
âAnd why would I mind that?â
That was a good point. If anything, he should probably dislike dry weather.
Since Matthew didnât seem inclined to say anything else right now, Maarten continued to paint silently, not bothered by the presence on his left. A few people walked by on the beach, but no one paid him any mind; the locals knew who he was and knew he preferred to be left alone.
After a while, Maarten glanced over and saw that Matthew had removed his shirt again and was lying on top of it, eyes closed. He reminded Maarten of a cat, basking in the sun. Or⌠A seal, maybe, like the ones he saw out on the shoals from time to time. Wiping his hands on his corduroys, he picked up his sketchbook and started putting down light lines. A flyaway strand of hair curling over Matthewâs forehead. The muscles in his arms as he rested his head on them. The path of his dark chest hair as it trailed down into his indecently low shortsâMaartenâs shorts.
âWhat are you doing?â Matthew asked, and Maarten was startled, scratching a long black line into the paper.
Licking his lips, he slowly turned his sketchbook so Matthew could see. The man squinted and scooted closer.
âOh,â he said softly, and looked up at Maarten. âI donât think anyone has ever drawn me before.â
âItâs probably difficult, to draw in the sea.â
Matthew laughed, shaking that same springy curl away from his face, and said, âWell, yes, but even on land, in all this timeâŚâ
âHow⌠Old are you?â
He shook his head. âBy your reckoning? Iâm not sure. We do have art, you know.â
âWhat? Yourâyour people?â
âYes! We have sculptures, and etchings. But nothing like this.â He touched Maartenâs sketch with one finger, violet eyes soft. Maarten wondered if he missed his people, whatever they were, wherever they were. It seemed like heâd come across that whole ocean of his own free will, but still.
âIâd say you can have it, but I donât think it would hold well in the sea,â he said.
âNo, it wouldnât. Not many things from the land do, but thatâs also true the other way around.â
âYouâre out here.â
Matthew sat on his knees and looked down at his hands.
âOnly for a short while. If I donât return to the water by midnight, I would wither.â
âOh.â Maarten blinked, trying to process that. âSo⌠Where have you been?â
âAlong the coast. Most of your people donât speak thisâEnglish. I learned it in Canada.â
âSo you came back here.â
âWell, I also wanted⌠To see you again. You werenât like most people.â He swept his hair away. The sunlight fell across his bare shoulders. There were freckles on the skin there that Maarten instantly itched to draw. He wiped his hands on his pants again.
âI didnât expect to see you again,â he confessed. âBut IâmâŚâ What he really was, he thought, was fascinated, but that would sound a little too intense out loud. âCan I continue this?â he asked instead, tapping his sketchbook. With a curious smile, Matthew nodded.
He stayed close. The long grass of the dunes created interesting shapes on his skin that intersected with the lines all over his body, and Maarten lost himself in the patterns for a while.
Eventually, he noticed the light changing, fading into a soft orange, and he looked up. Matthewâs peculiar eyes were even brighter contrasted like that.
âI should get home,â Maarten said. And, âGod, Iâm sorry, youâre sitting there already this whole time.â
âI donât mind. Itâs been nice to watch you.â
Maarten swallowed and wet his lips, nodding.
âMost people donât really notice me at all,â Matthew continued, laughing a little.
âHow could they not?â Maarten had to ask, as he carefully put his sketchbook away. He looked at Matthew, who opened and closed his mouth, and then smiled down at his knees. âDo you eat, Matthew? I mean, do you eat things that we eat?â
âEh?â
âDo youâIâm asking you to come eat with me, if thatâs something what you do.â
âOh! Yes, Iâve enjoyed most foods Iâve tried.â
âGood.â Maarten stood, brushing sand off his corduroys and folding up his little chair. He was glad to see Matthew do the same, although he just slung the orange shirt over one shoulder instead of putting it on. Maarten had no problems with this.
They plodded through the loose sand, across the dunes, to his bungalow. There, Maarten realized he absolutely could not let Matthew into his house like that; heâd get sand everywhere. Of course, this wasnât an unfamiliar problem, even if Maarten never got quite this sandy, so he had a hose attached to his outside faucet.
âLand is so inconvenient,â Matthew said, when informed of the problem. âWhat should I do?â
âRinse off.â Maarten raised the hose, and Matthew nodded and stood there expectantly on the tiled terrace.
Sand rinsed off his legs easily enough, and they kept dripping when Maarten was finished, the hair there darkened by the water.
âSo, you do get wet,â Maarten observed idly, handing Matthew a towel he hadnât been sure would be needed.
âOf course I do.â
âWell, I wouldnât know it. I have never met someone like you before.â They stepped into the kitchen.
âIâve never met someone like you, either,â Matthew told him.
Pausing in getting out some potatoes, Maarten blinked at him, and shook his head slowly, saying, âNo, I donât think that can be true.â
âIt is,â he just said quietly, and then he watched him peel potatoes.
Matthew seemed to like the meal, and helped put dishes away according to Maartenâs instructions, and then, he was going again, finally putting the shirt on properly. It was getting dark outside.
âWill you come back?â Maarten asked him, and he smiled brightly. His eyes seemed almost lilac in the low light from the kitchen, in contrast to the green tiles.
âI will,â he promised. And off he went, across the dunes and towards the crashing of the waves.
When Maarten moved here, to this lonely bungalow on the coast, he had expected to leave most of the excitement of his younger years behind, both the good and the bad parts of it, but it seemed that it had found a way to creep back into his life now that he was in his thirties. Perhaps it was the sea, always equal parts generous and foreboding. Apparently, there was much more out there than heâd ever thought possible, and he was curious to see what it would bring.
The next day, the sea brought back Matthew. He appeared in Maartenâs backyard, where he was tending to his little vegetable plot, just after lunch and wanted to show him some seashells that had intricate, tiny carvings inside. They were scenes depicting figures that looked just as human as Matthew, but also fish and other sea creatures.
âHave you made these?â Maarten asked, studying them in the sunlight.
âOh no, Iâm not an artist.â
âNo, youâre a traveler.â
âThatâs right,â he said with a smile. âI had these stored. My seal went to go fetch them for me.â
âYou sent aâŚâ
âMy seal.â
âYes, I heard you.â Maarten blinked. Okay, sure. Domesticated seals. Why not, after all? They were akin to dogs, he guessed. âWhat do these depict?â
So Matthew told him in a steady, soft voice about celebrations his people held, about strange deep-sea fish that no human being had ever seen, about the shifting of currents and the legends they told about that. When heâd left once more, Maarten tried to draw some of those scenes as he imagined them, but he kept getting stuck on Matthewâs eyes, those lines on his skin, on the strong muscles of his calves and the freckles on his shoulders.
It was a long while before he got to sleep that night.
Over the next few weeks, as summer turned very abruptly to autumn, Matthew appeared almost every other day. Sometimes, he brought stories or questions about other places along the coast, sometimes more tales of his people. He was fascinated by Maartenâs bicycle and listened with apparent wonder to his stories about the travels heâd been on. They tried to map things using an old atlas, and Matthew seemed to realize just how far he had actually come, looking at the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean on the paper.
In October, Maarten swam out much too far trying to keep up with Matthew, and had to be dragged back to shore. He lay on the sand, panting and wet, while Matthew was completely dry and glaring at him, autumn wind ruffling his hair. Maarten reached up and touched his calf, unable to lift his hand any further than that. The skin felt warm under his cold fingers.
Matthew kneeled on the wet sand, knees sinking into it, and leaned over him, so Maarten touched his arm, the curve of his shoulder underneath the orange shirt.
âThereâs a lot of sea,â he said, just loud enough to be heard over the waves and the seagulls.
âThereâs quite a lot of land, too,â Matthew replied, gently pressing a hand to his bare chest. Maarten held it there as his breath calmed.
They just looked at each other, until Maarten shivered violently, cold seeping into him, and he had to go home. Matthew, as if in a huff, walked straight into the sea. Maarten painted him, as heâd been doing for weeks though Matthew didnât know. This time, he was in the center of a storm that loomed the same purple as his eyes. Maarten had never mixed so many shades of purple before in his life.
The morning after that, the sky looked dreary, but Maarten knew he had to go into the nearest town to get some groceries. As he cycled back, it started to rain lightly. Luckily, it wasnât too bad, especially since he found Matthew sitting on the bench outside his backdoor, seemingly unconcerned.
âWelcome back,â Maarten told him. Matthew smiled, looking almost relieved, and helped him bring in groceries. Maarten grew many things himself, but he still needed to get supplies every other week or so. He wondered if Matthewâs people grew produce.
âOh!â Matthew was saying from the living room on the other side of the beaded curtain. Oh, right, the paintings. Heâd left them out, not quite expecting him to be back.
Maarten went over to him.
âYou have a good memory,â Matthew told him, looking at one of the earlier drawings, at the lines he had drawn.
âIâm an artist.â
âMost people donât seem to notice.â Matthew smiled up at him, looking amused. âNot a perfect memory, though.â
With deliberate slowness, he eased his shirt off one shoulder so he could trace the lines on the underside of his arm. He glanced up at Maarten.
âSee?â
Swallowing, Maarten reached for him, and with a soft âohâ, Matthew let him trace his fingers over his skin. It really felt just like any other personâs skin, soft and warm, the lines not tangible at all.
âYes, I see,â Maarten whispered, and met Matthewâs wide eyes. âUhââ
âNo, continue,â Matthew said breathlessly, when he went to withdraw his hand. âItâs⌠Continue.â
Struck with inspiration, Maarten slowly reached around him with his free hand, and grabbed one of his brushes, never looking away from those strange eyes. When he finally did, it was so could look as he swept the brush over Matthewâs skin, following the same lines his fingers had.
âOh,â Matthew gasped, and his breathing sped up when Maarten slowly brushed down his side, across his ribcage and back up to his clavicle, the touch light.
âYou breathe, just like⌠Like a human,â Maarten said, finding himself quite short of breath too.
âI think we are. My people. We justââ Matthew tipped his head back when Maarten swept the brush up his neck.
âIs it⌠Magic?â Maarten asked him. He ran the brush just underneath Matthewâs lip and across his cheekbone, and followed the contour of his jaw.
âMaybe.â
A month ago, all of this would have seemed absurd. It still did. Absurd, but not impossible.
Maarten trailed his brush over Matthewâs shoulder, switching it to his other hand. He wet his lips and met Matthewâs eye when he made a choked little noise. The purple was dark and intense as Matthew shrugged his shirt completely off. Maarten shivered.
âDo you know what,â he started, but trailed off when Matthew touched him, running his fingers along the side of his neck.
âI know,â Matthew answered anyway, as Maarten leaned over a little. âWeâre not that different.â
âOh, good,â was all Maarten could say, before he was tugged down, and Matthew kissed him.
He let his paintbrush clatter to the ground to pull him close, fingers fanning over all that exposed skin. Matthew started working on the buttons of his shirt.
âHave you done this before?â Maarten asked, gasping when Matthew pushed his shirt away, off his shoulders.
âOn land? Once.â He pulled back to look at Maarten.
It was raining hard now, beating against the windows, and Maarten nodded slowly, heart hammering.
âI did it in the sea once,â he said. âNot that great.â
Matthew laughed, told him it could be, and kissed him again. The taste of sea salt clung to his lips, to every bit of skin Maarten managed to get his mouth on. He tried to memorize the new lines on Matthewâs body that were revealed to him but quickly gave up because there were many other things to concentrate on. The way Matthewâs lips felt on his skin, or the noise he made when Maarten tugged him down onto the couch, or the rhythm of his heartbeat under Maartenâs palm.
It might just be a very bad idea to become so fascinated with this mysterious man from the sea, but Maarten found that he didnât care, as he grasped the back of his couch and arched his back into Matthewâs touch, clutching his legs around the manâs hips. There were worse things to be fascinated with.
Afterwards, when they were done catching their breath and Maarten felt like he could walk again, Matthew watched him peel potatoes as heâd done so often now, and later still, Maarten got to trace over all the lines on his body with his dry paintbrush until Matthew was gasping for breath. Maarten rested his forehead against his thigh, kneeling on the carpet between his legs. It had gone eleven.
âWill you come back?â he asked, muttering into Matthewâs skin.
âI will,â he breathed.
And he did; throughout the rest of the month, he showed up almost every day without fail. He brought more stories of the sea and of Canada, and watched him draw, and Maarten taught himself to carve seashells, which was difficult but rewarding, and he almost swam out much too far again, and he wondered what else was out there that he didnât know about.
And many nights, Maarten kept committing to memory the patterns of Matthewâs skin, the cadence of his gasps and the way he felt, over and under and inside him.
âI have to go away for a few days,â he told Matthew in November, catching his breath.
âOh. Where?â
âUtrecht. I have an exhibition at an art gallery and need to be there for a bit.â
Matthew frowned. âUtrecht isnât by the sea, is it?â
âNo.â He carded a hand through Matthewâs curls. âI hope you donât mind it.â
Matthew shook his head slowly, his nose brushing Maartenâs chest.
âI will say when I return,â Maarten said.
âI wish I could go with you.â Matthew muffled the words into his skin. And, âIâm sorry, Iâm not trying toââ
âNo, I wish you could, too.â He didnât think theyâd even bat an eye if he showed up with Matthew; the fact that he liked men was, especially in the art scene, the least peculiar thing about Maarten and ranked far below him living out here on the coast all by himself. Especially after all that the sea had taken from him.
There was always something about the water, though. Something that almost seemed to call to him.
When Maarten left for Utrecht on what was sure to be a tedious journey using public transport, Matthew was the one to ask, for once.
âWill you be back?â
âI will,â Maarten promised, and he biked away.
He took some of his seashell carvings to supplement the paintings that were already in Utrecht. Heâd gotten quite good at this new art form already, he thought. While in the city, he contemplated finally getting a phone again if just so he would be able to call his own house and talk to Matthew. He refrained.
When he returned, it was freezing cold, and Maarten could see lights on in his bungalow. For a moment after putting his bike away, he watched through the window, where Matthew flipped a record over and looked at the clock. Heâd explained to Maarten that his peopleâs concept of time was different, measured mostly in currents and seasons. To most of them, the mention of âmidnightâ in their legends meant very little, but he had learned to read a clock in Canada.
Since it was very cold, Maarten quickly went inside, and Matthew smiled brightly up at him. It wasnât very warm here either, but still much more pleasant, especially when Matthew looked like that. Quietly, Maarten sat next to him on the couch. He lit a cigarette while Matthew curled into him.
âI missed you,â he said softly, looking ahead at the record player. Wasnât that something? In years past, Maarten had sometimes feared heâd lost the ability to care. That all his capacity for love had washed away into the North Sea twenty years ago. But the sea had brought it back.
âYes,â Matthew breathed, curls brushing Maartenâs cheek when he pushed his sharp nose against his neck. âMe too.â
They sat, quietly for the most part, although the record kept playing until the end, and then Maarten shared some tidbits about his time in Utrecht.
âPeople liked the shells,â he said. âBut I didnât sell them.â
Heâd planned to, but it hadnât felt right. Matthew just hummed into his skin, then glanced up.
âI need to go,â he said.
âI wish you didnât.â
âMe too.â He frowned. âMy people have legendsâŚâ
âLegends?â
âI will tell you tomorrow. Itâs late.â
It was lateâvery nearly midnight, Maarten noticed with a start.
So Matthew rushed out over the dunes and back to the sea, and Maarten lay back on the couch and sighed.
The next day, Matthew appeared just after dawn. He had told Maarten that he needed to stay in the sea until the sun rose. Although he wouldnât wither immediately, it would be dangerous to go out on land all the same. This meant, as winter approached with the last day of November, that his time to be on land, be with Maarten, got shorter and shorter. Dawn was at half past eight already, and only getting later.
More than that, though, Maarten would just like to have him close throughout the night. To wake up next to him.
âSo the legend goes,â Matthew started, barely inside, âthat there is a way to be⌠Like my people.â
âWhat does that mean?â Maarten asked.
âIf it is magic, if maybe we were created somehow, then this is the way to transfer it.â
âSo I couldâŚâ Be with him. âAnd what is the way, according to the legend?â
âDo you want toâwould you really want toâŚâ Matthew trailed off, gazing at Maarten, who put his cup of tea away and nodded.
âI feel like itâs always been the sea, Matt,â he said. âIt makes sense.â
Matthew gently touched his cheek. His jaw. Swiped his thumb over his lips.
âItâs about this,â he said, turning his arm and touching the mysterious lines. âIf IâŚâ Now again, he touched Maarten, trailing a finger down his neck, smiling when he shivered.
âThatâs all?â
âIf the legend is true. It could also be about love. It wouldnât work if we didnâtâŚâ
âI donât think thatâs a problem,â Maarten said, voice low. He met Matthewâs violet gaze.
âNo,â he replied, equally soft. âIt shouldnât be.â
It took three days, and a few distractions, for Matthew to trace all the lines into Maartenâs skin so they mirrored his own, using a paintbrush wet with sea water, though they didnât know if it would make a difference.
And then, December 3rd, Matthew swept the brush up the inside of Maartenâs ankle, and said, âItâs done.â He looked up and met Maartenâs eye, swallowing.
âYes?â
Matthew nodded, slowly pushing himself up using Maartenâs knees, until their noses touched. He asked, âAre you sure?â
âYes.â Maarten kissed him softly, swiping his hair away from his face. âAre you?â
âYes,â Matthew mumbled against his lips. âYou were right. It feels like it makes sense.â
It did, especially when Matthew kissed him again, pushing until he lay down and leaning over him, every part of them sliding together. Maarten was sure he felt a tingle under his skin that was brand new, a tingle that only intensified every time they touched, became more pronounced with every thrust of Matthewâs hips. It felt like longing, yet not the desperate kind heâd felt before.
âOh,â he gasped, arching into it. âI canââ
âYes,â Matthew said, violet eyes intense, his fingers digging into Maartenâs hips.
Even as they both came down from that, the tingle stayed, urging Maarten to move.
âIs this what it feels like? The sea?â he asked.
âItâs also what you feel like, to me,â Matthew murmured, and Maarten smiled. âBut if we get to the water, you will know.â
And so, leaving Maartenâs bungalow behind, they walked across the dunes to the familiar North Sea, dark in the December evening. Maarten didnât feel like he would return. There were seas to explore, and brand new coastlines and kinds of art and ways of living.
He paused only briefly at the edge of the water. Matthew waited patiently.
âGoed. Tijd om te gaan.â Time to go.
They walked into the surf, until a wave swept both of them under, and they vanished into the cold North Sea.
.
+ a clipping from a December 1974 newspaper, reporting on this. It reads, 'Missing. 34-year-old Maarten van Dijk from Scheveningen has been missing since December 3rd. His house was found abandoned. It is feared that an accident happened, possibly at sea. Van Dijk is over 1.95m tall and has dark blond hair. He is known as an artist. Tips to police in The Hague: 070-636969.'
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Hello! I'm very late but from the prompt list, would you be able to write EstLiet with prompts 3 and 33? No worries if you're not up for it or no longer accepting asks though! <3
3. "Kiss me."
33. "You're cute with glasses."
No problem! Luckily, I didn't read the entirety of Return of the King before writing this, like I did a couple of years ago, so no high fantasy :) Instead, here's a romcom, featuring a Wacky Supporting Cast⢠consisting of almost all of Eastern Europe, more talk of budgets than I expected, and a play I made up!
Names are pretty straightforward, I guess, (I write about these characters often enough) but since they almost never show up: Kveta is Czechia and Zdeno is Slovakia. I hope you like it <3
Send me a pairing and a number and I'll write you a fic!
.
âJoin the community theatre, they said. Itâll be fun, they said.â
As Tolys enters the theatreâs modest kitchen, he identifies the source of the grumbling as Eduard, who is scrubbing his hands at the sink and doesnât seem to have noticed him.
âWell, maybe you shouldnât ask the sound guy to paint, Borisov,â Eduard continues to himself.
âI see youâve started monologuing too,â Tolys says, smiling when Eduard jumps in surprise, splashing water around. There is, somehow, a streak of red paint in his pale blond hair.
âItâs tempting,â Eduard tells Tolys while he walks over to make some coffee. âIs Raivis still going?â
âNo, Dragos is doing his weird accent again and ErzsĂŠbet is yelling at him, as usual.â Tolys shrugs at Eduardâs incredulous look, with his eyebrows disappearing behind his hair. âItâs part of the charm.â
With a laugh, Eduard dries his hands. There is still some paint on his long fingers, flecks of gold and white over an old ink stain.
âAnd what do you do, Tolys?â
âHm?â
âWell,â he says, leaning a hip against the kitchen counter and adjusting his glasses, âRaivis monologues, ErzsĂŠbet yells at people, Stefan keeps telling me Iâm bad at painting. Whatâs your thing?â
Tolys doesnât think he has a thing, but he tucks his hair behind one ear and says, âI guess youâll have to find out,â so that Eduard raises an intrigued eyebrow and leans a little closer to him.
âI look forward to it,â he replies. âAny chance you can help paint the sets?â
Picking up his cup of coffee from the awful coffee machine he himself donated to the rickety community theatre building years ago, Tolys gestures for Eduard to lead the way. They pass through the main hall, where they speedwalk away from ErzsĂŠbet trying to drag them into her argument with Dragos about his ridiculous fake accent, and into a side-room turned workshop. The air is heavy with paint fumes.
Immediately, Stefan Borisov pushes a paintbrush into Eduardâs hand, all the while telling him he sucks at painting.
âIâm an accountant!â Eduard protests indignantly.
âGood, maybe you can find out why I have almost no budget.â
In response, Eduard rolls his eyes, and turns to a large plywood slab that must be a background, half-painted in some abstract pattern.
âWhat exactly⌠Is it?â Tolys asks him, and gets a grimace in return.
âIâve been told itâs art deco, since the play takes place in the twenties.â
âAlright.â He tilts his head. âWell, Iâm sure you have other talents.â
Stefan snorts on the other side of the room. Eduard narrows his light eyes at Tolys, who smiles into his coffee. Itâs been nice, having someone new in the group whoâs not yet used to the general chaos that is the theatre. Especially nice since Eduard has taken all the weirdness in stride so far. And, of course, since Tolys was immediately mesmerized by the manâs eyes when they were introduced, and Eduard has seemed more than happy to let him explain things so he could see much more of themâof all of him.
âI have plenty of talents, Tolys,â he says now. âI guess youâll have to find out.â
âHm. I look forward to that.â
Just then, ErzsĂŠbet storms into the room, agitatedly waving her hands.
âThis is all your fault, Borisov!â she shouts. âYou let him do his stupid accent one timeââ
Stefan blithely continues measuring plywood, so Tolys sighs and tells her heâll come talk to Dragos.
Not that it will help.
-
Now that theyâre a good while into preparations for this autumnâs play at the community theatre, there are finally things to do for Tolys, and for Eduard. The two of them are in charge of lighting and sound respectively, but have mostly been helping Stefan with the sets until the castâs blocking was close to finished.
This evening after he got home from work, Tolys had been quite eager to get to the theatre if just to spend time in his control box with Eduard, but he hasnât been able to find the man anywhere.
Not, at least, until he walks into a dressing room.
âNot to interruptâŚâ he starts slowly. âFeliks, you know heâs not in the play, right?â
In a corner of the room, Eduard is sitting stiffly in a folding chair, blond hair pulled back from his face with a bandana. Heâs squinting in Tolysâs direction, his sea-green eyes even more striking than usual because theyâre, for some reason, framed by dark eyeliner. Something has surely happened to his eyebrows as well, but Tolys has no idea what.
Feliks swivels to him on his saddle chair, pointing a thing of mascara his way.
âNo, but!â He gestures at Eduard, who squints some more. âHeâs got a very similar complexion to Raivis and I need to know what works, and Raivis is too busy doing stress monologues.â
Raivis is currently, as far as Tolys is aware, trying to teach Zdeno to longboard in the parking lot, much to ErzsĂŠbetâs dismay, but itâs a fair point otherwise.
âAre you done now?â Eduard asks Feliks faintly.
âNo! Sit still.â
Tolys tries to shoot Eduard a reassuring smile but gets no reaction, and thatâs when he realizes that the man isnât wearing his glasses. And that, even more than the eyeliner, is whatâs making his eyes stand out so much. He watches with fascination while Feliks puts the mascara on Eduard, who looks terrified the entire time. Having been part of several plays now, including as an actor, Tolys has come to realize that more makeup always seems to be needed than he expects beforehand.
âIs mascara really dependent on complexion?â he asks nonetheless. Feliks just grins and winks at him over his shoulder, and then tells Eduard heâs finished. Standing, he snaps his fingers.
âTolys, what do you think?â
âI thinkâŚâ
Eduard seems terrified to blink.
âWell, he looks very handsome.â
With a dramatic sigh, Feliks elbows Tolys in the side and rolls his eyes when he looks over, obviously amused.
âCan I put my glasses back on?â asks Eduard.
âYeah, sure. Iâm gonna go see if Raivis has some time to spare!â Feliks waltzes out of the dressing room with a jaunty salute.
âIf Raivis has time, why did you needââ Frowning, Eduard crosses his arms.
Tolys walks over, spotting the manâs wire-rimmed glasses sitting on a table. He picks them up and hands them to Eduard, who smiles gratefully as he puts them on.
âI feel like an idiot,â he says morosely, standing up and looking in a mirror.
âDonât worry, Feliks putting makeup on crew members is basically tradition. Thatâs his thing, I guess.â Even when, as they do, the roles change and someone else is in charge of the makeup. âBesides, I do think you look nice.â
âNice, hm?â Eduard pulls the bandana from his hair. âThatâs a step down from handsome.â
âI believe I said very handsome,â Tolys replies, feeling his face heat.
âIs that your thing?â
âHuh?â Handsome, tall men? Those certainly are. At least some of them.
âCompliments.â Eduard smiles, a slight mischievous edge to it that is exacerbated by the eyeliner, which makes him look roguish. Tolys didnât realize that was his thing, but he has to admit, itâs working. He blinks, Eduardâs response filtering through to him. Compliments?
âOnly when I mean them.â
âAlright, good to know,â Eduard says softly. And then, âHold on, how am I going to get this off my face? I donât own any makeup remover!â
âSurely thereâs some around here?â
They both look at the array of bottles and brushes Feliks has left behind. Eduard pushes his glasses up and squares his shoulders.
âRight.â
They find the remover and some cotton pads quickly enough. Sighing, Eduard takes his glasses off again and leans very close to a mirror to start to wipe the makeup off.
âHow did Feliks rope you into this, anyway?â Tolys asks, sitting down on Feliksâs chair.
âHe said he had âexperimentsâ to do.â
âAnd you just went along with it?â
âWell, I didnât know! And Iâm not afraid of experiments.â
âI guess thatâs good to know.â
Eduard chuckles. As he leans on the table with one hand, Tolysâs eye is drawn to the lean muscle in his forearm, moving under the pale skin. He wonders at it; surely, an accountant shouldnât have such nice arms.
âYouâre left-handed,â he observes, clearing his throat. Eduard hums as he scrubs furiously at one eye with a cotton pad.
âYeah. Oh, I wanted to ask you something.â He picks up another cotton pad. The eyeliner has smudged everywhere, which is also very distracting.
âYes?â
âDo you play any instruments?â
âOh, not really. Learned to play the recorder in school, like everyone 20 years ago, but nothing since. Why do you ask?â
âI had this idea.â He switches to his other eye. Cringes. âOh my god, that is very unpleasant.â Heâs tearing up, and Tolys canât help but laugh a little. âNo, shut up. I hate when things are in my eyes. I swear I nearly had a panic attack when I tried contact lenses.â
âIâm sorry, thatâs fair,â Tolys says, even if heâs still a little amused. âAnyway, I think⌠I think youâre cute with glasses, so thatâs alright.â
For a moment, Eduard is silent, although Tolys can see him smiling in the reflection even as he scrubs makeup away.
âItâs cute now, is it?â he eventually asks, and picks up yet another cotton pad.
âBetter or worse than nice?â
âItâs all great,â he says earnestly, still smiling.
âIâm glad.â Tolys pushes a hand through his hair, suddenly quite warm. âWhat was that about musical instruments?â
Wiping a last, clean, cotton pad across his face, Eduard puts his glasses back on and leans back against the table. Feliks would probably call it a vanity, but it really isnât; it used to be a set piece, several years ago. When Eduard crosses his arms, the muscles in his arms move again, distractingly.
âI was thinking about background music. Or at least some musical stings. But I barely have the budget for stock sound effects, after getting that new microphone.â
The old microphone broke during the spring playâs last showing; ErzsĂŠbet needed to shout all her lines. Luckily, sheâs very good at shouting.
âSo you want us to do the music?â
âIf there are enough instruments among everyone. I play a couple myself, and I can compose some thingsâŚâ
âSo those are some of the talents you mentioned?â
 Eduard laughs, uncrossing his arms to grip the edge of the table. His hair is still a little wilder than usual, when it is very straight down his forehead, and the scrubbing at his face has left him flushed, and Tolys would love to see more of that. Heâd also love to know just how strong his arms actually are. If he could push them down, maybe, if just to watch the muscles work.
âWhat instruments do you play?â he asks instead.
âMostly piano, or keyboard.â
With those long fingers? That makes sense. Oh, that might be where the muscles come in.
âI think Feliks plays the piano.â
âOrgan, actually,â Feliks interjects from where heâs appeared back in the doorway, Raivis trailing behind.
Eduard jumps, rattling the table. Feliks snaps his fingers at the both of them.
âGet out of here. Iâve got experiments to conduct.â
âGodspeed, Raivis,â Eduard mutters. Raivis shrugs, and Feliks winks at Tolys again as he leaves the dressing room.
-
When Tolys enters the theatre, Iryna is singing. Apparently, sheâs still upset theyâre not doing a musical. This time, however, there is someone singing with her. It isnât her sister, or Raivis, who is a great singer, but this voice is too deep to be his. Tolys knows Stefan can sing but just doesnât, and so he has no idea who to expect until he opens the doors, leaving the summer heat outside, and sees that it is Eduard, whoâs also playing the keyboard thatâs somehow always left unattended somewhere in the building.
He has a very pleasant voice, a steady counter to Irynaâs nearly operatic vocals. It takes a moment for Tolys to realize that the song theyâre singing is about the play, although most of the lyrics are pretty nonsensical. Are they making it up on the spot?
âAh, Tolys,â says Kveta, apparently unimpressed as she enters the hall behind him. Eduard glances over and smiles, but his hands donât falter on the keyboard.
Tolys greets Kveta. She taps his arm, and he reluctantly looks at her instead of at Eduardâs elegant fingers, or his arms. Theyâre very nice.
âCan I borrow you for a moment?â
âAre you doing experiments, too?â he asks her warily, eyeing her sharp eyeliner as she rolls her eyes.
âI just need a hand. I know you can sew.â
He can, so he follows her to the side room thatâs been designated her workshop. Itâs a little overwhelming in here, to be honest. With Kveta in charge of costumes, it was bound to be. Technically, she and Feliks share responsibility for makeup and wardrobe, and they are, from a creative standpoint, the best choices among them by far. Tolys does think the look of the play may end up outshining the actual play, though.
Kveta tells him to sew a trim to a dress that he thinks is for Nadzeyaâs villain character, which is easy enough, so he sets to work at the sewing machine.
After a while, both Iryna and Eduard wander into the room, chatting amicably.
âGreat!â Kveta says happily. âIryna, Iâve finished the modifications to your suit.â She gestures her over, leaving Eduard to wander to Tolysâs corner of the room. Tolys looks up when heâs finished the trim.
âSo, you sew,â Eduard says, sounding⌠Impressed.
âAnd you sing, apparently.â
Eduard shrugs, pushing his glasses up.
âThatâs another talent. I can see why you volunteered to do the sound.â Tolys cuts the thread and flips the dress right-side-out.
âWell, I donât think any of my many other talents would be useful at a theatre,â Eduard says, deadpan. He looks around at the explosion of fabrics and colors in the room. âActually, I think I know where the budget went.â
âYeah, we really shouldnât have given Kveta free rein. There should be someone overseeing everything. Maybe for next yearâs spring play.â
Iryna emerges, and Kveta makes a delighted noise that makes everyone smile.
âMaybe a little free rein,â Tolys amends. Iryna truly looks as though sheâs stepped out of the 1920s. He holds both thumbs up at her, and she beams, and then he turns to Eduard, asking, âDo we have something to do?â
âRight, yes! ErzsĂŠbet wants to do the big reveal scene with Nadzeya and Raivis, and I think it will need lots of dramatic lighting.â
âExciting.â He follows the man out of the dressing room. Eduard looks over his shoulder, curiosity in his eyes.
âAny reason in particular you know how to sew?â
âI, ahâŚâ Tolys pushes a hand through his hair. âI do historical re-enactments. Itâs very useful for that.â
âReally?â Eduard pauses in front of the door to their sound-and-lighting box, which is sure to be unbearably hot in the summer evening. He looks with something like wonder down at Tolys, which isnât the reaction heâs used to receiving. âYou know, Iâve always wanted to try that, itâs fascinating!â
âYeah?â Tolys smiles. âWell, you know, everyoneâs welcome. Iâd be happy to help out.â
âWhat sort of time period do you⌠Re-enact?â
âLate medieval, mostly. I, ah, Iâve done archery since I was a teenager, and thatâs the main reason I went in the beginning.â
âArchery,â Eduard says wonderingly, looking down at Tolysâs arms. âThatâs very nice.â
âAny reason in particular you know how to sing, Eduard?â
âHa!â He opens the door to the box, which does, unfortunately, feel like a sauna, so Tolys puts a chair in front of it to keep it open. âMostly dumb luck.â
Fair enough. That reminds Tolys, thoughâŚ
âAre you having any luck with the music thing?â he asks as they take their places behind the control panel overlooking the hall. Despite the general state of the building and possible misdistribution of the budget, the box is quite well-appointed. Tolys has never done lighting before, but he understands now why Zdeno was doing whole laser shows last spring; itâs very tempting to press all the buttons.
âYes!â Eduard says enthusiastically. âHave you ever heard Dragos play the violin? Heâs very good.â
âReally?â Tolys had no idea.
âAnd I wanted some jazz elements in there, you know, since itâs the twenties,â he continues. âNo one has a trumpet, sadly, but Luca plays the saxophone, so thatâs great.â
âAh, yes, everyone knows about Lucaâs saxophone. Dragos wonât shut up about it.â
Eduard snorts, putting his headphones on one ear so he can hear whatâs happening on stage.
âHeâs just proud of his brother.â Abruptly, he takes his headphones off again and swivels to Tolys, expression serious. âI have to ask. Whatâs the deal with Kveta and Zdeno? Are they related or married or what?â
Tolys laughs out loud, leaning back in his chair. âThey do it on purpose, I swear! Every time someone new joins, they get confused. Theyâre siblings.â
âReal family affair around here, isnât it?â Eduard asks, lips twitching with laughter as he puts his headphones on once more.
âYouâre here because of your cousin,â Tolys reminds him.
âYes, and sheâs yelling at Dragos again. Also, I hope my brother never joins; heâs a horror fanatic.â
Oh no, thatâs a bad idea. Tolys spent ages washing fake blood out of rented costumes a few years ago. Damn Dragos and his obsession with vampires. And Stefan, who had let him do his outrageous accent.
 âOkay, ready,â Eduard is saying over the loudspeakers, so that it echoes through the empty hall. Tolys puts his headphones on as well and gets ready to push buttons.
-
âThat looks really nice, actually!â Tolys enthuses, stepping back from the stage to take in the whole set.
âThereâs no need to sound so surprised about it,â Stefan grumbles even as he gazes proudly at his work. Much like Kveta and Feliks, Stefan is the right person for this role, and he can actually work within a budget.
âWell, he saw me painting,â Eduard rationalizes. Heâs sitting on the edge of the stage and typing on a laptop.
âIâve heard you have other talents,â Stefan says dryly. âRight. ErzsĂŠbet! Give me a hand!â
She stomps onstage from the wings. Tolys hops up to sit next to Eduard, peering at his screen, from which he gleans nothing. Itâs either accounting or music production, both of which might as well be magic to him. There are lots of colors.
Eduard glances at Tolys, the screen reflecting in his glasses, opens his mouth but doesnât say anything, and then he shifts ever so slightly, until his thigh presses barely into Tolysâs. Itâs a small, seemingly innocent movement that has Tolysâs heart skipping a beat anyway. Ever since the first time they met, he thinks theyâve both been aware that something could be there. It feels very much like itâs a matter of time, and heâs happy to let it play out.
âAnything I can help with?â he asks, knowing itâs probably futile.
âYou can take a listen later and tell me what you think.â
âI donât know anything about music.â
âThatâs nonsense.â Eduard smiles at him. Heâs close enough that Tolys notices he smells pleasantly like baked goods.
âHey, Ed, can you come over here a second?â ErzsĂŠbet asks from behind them. âI have some questions.â
Nodding and throwing Tolys an apologetic smile, Eduard puts his laptop aside and clambers to his feet to go with his cousin. Sheâs the only one who calls him Ed; Tolys wonders if the man would mind if he did.
Feliks comes walking up to the stage, looking at his phone until he spots Tolys. For some reason, heâs wearing one of Lucaâs costumes. One for when heâs a villainous henchman. Luca has a lot of roles; they really need more people to join.
âHowâs it going with the new guy?â Feliks asks. He puts both elbows on the edge of the stage so he can lean his chin in his hands and look up at Tolys.
âHeâs doing great, I think!â
âSorry, I shouldâve been more clear.â Feliks gestures with one hand. âHowâs it going with your seduction of the new guy?â
âSeduction?â
âCourting?â he suggests, grinning, and then grinning even wider when Raivis, who is also wearing one of Lucaâs costumes, comes up from the other side and says, âWooing, surely.â
âOoh!â Feliks snaps his fingers. âRomancing!â
âGuys,â Tolys says, looking back over his shoulder. âWhat is this, high school?â
âIt feels like it sometimes,â Raivis says.
âYou mustâve done a lot of very long presentations, then,â Feliks replies. Turns back to Tolys. âAnd I was homeschooled. Anyway, Iâm not blaming you. Heâs cute.â
âVery tall,â Raivis puts in, nodding sagely, as if that isnât the first thing anyone would notice about Eduard. Well, aside from his eyes. Tolys puts both his hands over his warm face.
âNo, like, really! I support you!â Feliks insists. âI just want to know how itâs going!â
âYou want to gossip about it with ErzsĂŠbet, is what you mean,â Tolys mutters into his hands. âLook, itâs⌠Itâs going. Iâm not sure where yet, but it is.â
âCryptic,â Raivis comments, while Feliks just sighs dramatically, although heâs grinning when Tolys looks at him, not unkindly. Theyâve been friends for a long time, and he supposes itâs nice to know Feliks approves. Over the years, heâs proven quite insightful when it comes to his taste in men.
âHey,â comes Eduardâs voice from behind Tolys once more, and one of the manâs hands lands gently on his right shoulder, âis there a reason everyoneâs wearing Lucaâs clothes?â
âExperiments,â Raivis just says, which makes Eduard chuckle warmly. He puts his other hand on Tolysâs left shoulder, long fingers gently pressing down, and Tolys bites his lip when Raivis quirks his eyebrows at him.
As Eduard thanks Feliks for his help with the music, Tolys leans his head back a little bit, and he can feel Eduard shift in response, until one of the manâs thumbs swipes over the collar of his T-shirt and across the bare skin of his neck. Surely, he must be able to feel Tolysâs pulse thundering?
âRight.â Eduard clears his throat. He pushes down briefly, so Tolys tilts his head further back to look up at him, meeting those sea-green eyes. What little hair Tolys has left out of his ponytail falls away from his face.
Eduard blinks, fingers curling against Tolysâs shoulders. Then, he smiles.
âWant to listen to some musical stings?â he asks, leaning down just a little bit.
âSure.â
Stepping back, Eduard offers a hand to Tolys to help him up, which Tolys takes and uses to step close to him. In response, he only gets another smile, and Eduard bends down to retrieve his laptop, then gestures for him to come along.
âIt really is going, huh?â Feliks asks. Raivis snorts, and Tolys laughs softly.
âIt is,â he confirms, and follows Eduard to their box.
-
Somehow, things manage to get more chaotic as opening night approaches, but Tolys is certain it will all come together in the end, as it always seems to do. Lucaâs doing all his costume changes in time now, Raivis has stopped his nervous monologuing, Dragos isnât doing the accent anymore, and Iryna has remembered sheâs supposed to act, not sing.
Nadzeya and Zdeno were already doing well, even if they both seemed disinterested at first.
All the budget going to costumes was worth it, Tolys thinks. Obviously, Kveta is just as concerned with historical accuracy as he is when it comes to his re-enactments.
Itâs a shame, though, that Eduard wonât be wearing one of those nice suits Raivis has; Tolys has taken to imagining him in a waistcoat.
âCan I offer you some cake in this trying time?â the man in question is asking now, holding a Tupperware out to Tolys. Though he isnât in a waistcoat, he has a nice blue shirt on, the sleeves distractingly rolled up to his elbows.
âHuh?â
âI made some cake,â Eduard elaborates. âNothing fancy.â
Tolys gratefully takes a slice of cake, smiling up at him.
Theyâre in the foyer of the theatre, watching people come inâmostly familyâto watch the dress rehearsal. There really isnât any reason for there to be an audience during the dress rehearsal, but itâs a tradition started long before Tolys joined that everyoneâs family and friends would show up to watch. This is also the reason, he thinks, that they have a relatively large number of siblings at the community theatre.
He waves at his mother as she arrives, and she blows him a kiss.
âYour mother?â Eduard asks, sounding amused. Tolys refuses to be embarrassed. Sure, heâs thirty-one, but he loves his mom.
âItâs for good luck,â he says.
âThatâs nice. My brother gave me the finger.â
âThis is very good,â he says instead, swallowing. âAnother talent, is it?â
âWhat, baking? I think that thatâs more of an acquired skill.â
âThere are people at re-enactments who make all these old recipes, over a fire and everything,â Tolys tells him, and Eduard lights up.
âThat sounds so interesting!â
âYeah, itâsâŚâ Tolys smiles helplessly, a little taken aback by the full force of his enthusiasm. âIâd be happy to take you. You can borrow something of mine, even.â
Eduardâs gaze sweeps down Tolysâs body in a way thatâs certainly not assessing if his clothes would fit, and Tolys shoves the last bit of cake into his mouth.
âThat sounds great, Iâll have to take you up on that.â Eduard checks his watch. âWe should go get ready now, though.â
They make their way to their box, the entrance to which is in an empty corridor outside the theatre hall. Tolys takes a deep breath, and Eduard turns to him, hand on the door handle.
âAre you nervous?â he asks with genuine curiosity.
âNot⌠Really. Not for myself, at least.â Tolys pushes a hand through his hair and looks up at Eduard to catch him blinking somewhat dazedly down at him. âI suppose I could always useâŚâ He trails off, suddenly embarrassed.
Eduard raises his eyebrows, stepping closer and touching his arm briefly.
âWhat?â
âI was going to say⌠I could always use some more luck.â
Parting his lips, Eduard gazes down at him, until he smiles slowly.
âWell, certainly I could help with that. I have so many talents, after all.â
âYouââ Tolys laughs, and then decides, might as wellâitâs where itâs all been goingâand reaches for Eduardâs collar, which reveals the dip of his throat, to fold his fingers into it. The manâs eyes widen, but he is still smiling. He touches Tolysâs arms again, this time lingering.
âMaybe I could sing you a song,â he muses teasingly. âOr write a piece ofââ
âEduard?â
âHm?â He leans down when Tolys gently tugs at his collar, fingers trailing up his forearms.
âKiss me already.â
He does, leaning down until Tolys meets him halfway, turning his face into the gentle slide of his lips. Itâs soft, but it sparks through Tolys nonetheless, especially when Eduard pulls him closer by the waist until their bodies are touching.
âSoâŚâ Eduard starts, straightening just slightly and looking down with half-lidded eyes. âAnother talent?â
Tolys grins. âThatâs pretty presumptuous, Eduard.â He slides his hands up and around his neck, pulling him down again while he laughs.
This time, he catches Eduardâs bottom lip between his own briefly, which gets him a surprised little sound, Eduardâs fingers flexing on his waist, before the man tilts his head and parts his lips. Itâs definitely going, Tolys thinks, pushing his fingers into Eduardâs hair.
He canât tell how long they just stand there in the warm corridor, kissing slowly; all he knows is that Eduard looks beautifully flushed when they finally part, and somehow his glasses have been knocked askew. Tolys untangles one hand from his hair to right them.
âYeah, cute,â he mumbles. Eduard laughs, eyes bright.
âIs that enough luck?â he asks.
âI suppose weâll have to see.â Tolys blinks. âUh, we really should get in there.â
âRight!â
They untangle themselves hurriedly. Tolys fixes Eduardâs collar, which makes him grin.
âThatâs the thing, isnât it?â he asks as they enter their dimly-lit box and take their places. âYour thing. Itâs being helpful.â
âEduard, I have many things.â Tolys quirks his eyebrows at him, and puts his headphones on.
-
âOh my god, theyâre both doing the accent,â Eduard says, distraught. âTolys, is it normal for dress rehearsal to be such a mess?â
âNot⌠This much,â he replies, mostly very amused. Dragos and Nadzeya, who play the main villains, somehow sound both more menacing and absolutely ridiculous at the same time.
Earlier, Zdeno tripped over nothing and took Iryna down as well, and that apparently had been distressing enough that Raivis started stress-monologuing until they shut down both light and sound to end the scene. Then, Eduard had played one of his jazzy stings but somehow much too loud, and even the two of them had heard ErzsĂŠbet yell, âWhat the hell?â in shock.
At least, itâs almost time for the intermission. It wonât be as long as when they do actual performances, the next few weeks, but itâs something. The audience, at least, seem to think the accent is hilarious.
âThey probably wonât do it again,â he tells Eduard, who is by now standing up and leaning forward over his control panel as if to see the stage better.
âNo, because ErzsĂŠbet will murder them.â
âCould be.â Tolys changes the lights for the last scene, which is, unfortunately, one where Raivis speaks a lot and therefore has a high chance of monologue.
Honestly, itâs pretty impressive, the way he stays in-character as the prince the whole time.
âThere he goes,â Eduard muses, gesturing.
Tolys decides to center the spotlight on Raivis, and Eduard laughs, glancing his way.
âI guess it wasnât enough luck.â
âWell.â Deciding not to think too much about it, Tolys stands. Heâs delighted when Eduard turns around eagerly, slouching against the control panels so that he can easily crowd close to him and kiss him again.
Now, Eduard pushes one hand into Tolysâs hair, and Tolys grasps his hips where they rest against the table, slotting their legs together. Eduard makes a hoarse noise in the back of his throat when Tolys swipes his tongue over his lips, and he puts his hand on the control panel as he pushes back. Tolys presses his own hand over Eduardâs, and theyâre definitely pushing buttons but heâs not sure he cares, not when Eduardâs long fingers are tangling in his hair frantically and the edge of his glasses digs into Tolysâs nose and he gasps into his mouth when Tolys slides his other hand up until his fingers brush heated skin.
Tolys lets his hand linger when he pulls back to look up at Eduardâs flushed face. Then, he glances at the stage, where lights are swirling in a pattern heâs sure he never programmed and Raivis is still speaking over a rising wave of sound, somehow steadily.
âItâs bad, isnât it?â Eduard asks, lips against his temple, his breath hot on his skin.
âOh no,â Tolys replies, grinning up at him. âItâs very good.â
With both hands, he pushes every single slider down as Raivisâs monologue crescendoes, and then he tugs Eduard away from the control panels.
âI think we need a lot more luck for after the intermission.â
-
âItâs going, huh?â Feliks asks.
âItâs going,â Tolys confirms with a grin.
âYeah, I thought so. Your shirt is inside-out.â
39. I don't want to keep us a secret anymore.
46. Or we could make out.
Yooo anon I'm always happy to write NorHong again! And these two prompts fit perfectly with a fic that I'd been vaguely thinking of already, except it grew more plot than I was expecting lol. I hope you like it!
As always, Einar is Nor, Leon is HK, Egill is Ice, Dragos is Romania, Mei is Taiwan and Arthur is of course England and Yao's China :)
Send me a pairing and a number and I'll write you a fic!
-
The door of the living room slams open, and Egill nearly falls off the couch when Leon storms in, looking very frantic and waving his phone around.
âWhat the hell,â Egill starts, pulling his earbuds out, âwhatâs the matter withââ
âCan you reach Einar?â
Egill blinks up at his roommate when he comes to a halt in front of him.
âEinar?â
âYes, Einar!â Leonâs thick eyebrows jump wildly. âYour brother? You might have heard of him? Can you reach him?â
âI donât know, itâs not like we speak every day,â Egill says. âWhy?â
âCan you justâŚâ Leon starts pacing around the coffee table, looking at his phone intermittently. âCan you try calling him?â
âI never call, heâll think somethingâs wrong. Leonââ
âGood! Maybe heâll pick up!â
âLeon, what is going on?â Egill repeats, raising his voice a little. âWhy are you so worried about my brother?â
Still pacing around the table in the small room, Leon says, âI havenât been able to get a hold of him since yesterday afternoon, and IâmâIâm worried.â
Why the fuck does he even have Einarâs number, let alone have such frequent contact with him that one day without is enough to send him into this much of a frenzy? And why is Egill not aware of it?
âHeâs probably on one of his, I donât know, nature trips that he does. Really, why are you so worried?â
âHeâd let me know,â Leon mutters, which makes no sense; Einar frequently just disappears for a couple of days without telling even his closest friends where heâs off to. Even when itâs March and still cold like it is now.
âLeonâŚâ
âCan you please just try, Egill?â He turns to him again, clutching his phone in both hands.
With a sigh, Egill unlocks his own phone and navigates to his brotherâs contact info. Heâs a good friend, he wants that on the record. If his best friend wants him to talk to his brother, he will. He presses call. Listens.
âVoicemail,â he tells Leon, the robot ladyâs voice still reading numbers at him. Leonâs eyebrows draw together and he sighs deeply as he sits on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. Something in his eyes gives Egill pause. âShould I text him?â he asks. Leon nods.
âPlease.â
Egill texts Einar a simple âwhatâs upâ message, but doesnât get a notification that itâs even received, so he shakes his head at Leon, who presses his lips together tightly.
âWill you tell me whatâs happening here, Leon? Why do you apparently talk to my brother more than I do? I didnât know you were friends.â
As soon as Leon opens his mouth to reply, Egill realizes with sudden clarity that thereâs really only one explanation, and feels like an absolute buffoon for not piecing it together sooner.
âWeâre dating,â Leon says, just as Egill thought, although it doesnât make it any less of a shock. âWeâve been dating for over a year.â
Over a year? Alright, that part, he didnât see coming.
âWhat the⌠How the hell did that even happen?â
âItâsâŚâ Leon clears his throat. âKind of a long story.â He glances at his silent phone, eyebrows jumping indecipherably again. âBut I guess Iâve got the time.â
-
There werenât a whole lot of people on the train, but Arthur still insisted Leon stay near him at all times, as if he were a five-year-old likely to wander off without adult supervision. So Leon sat across from the man and scrolled through Instagram for lack of better things to do, occasionally glancing around when someone exited or entered the carriage.
âArthur Kirkland,â he suddenly heard a deep, smooth voice say, from behind him. Arthur looked up and smiled in surprise.
âEinar!â he said. Leon turned slightly to look at the man Arthur was standing up to greet. He was taller than him, willowy and pale in a dark blue shirt, one long-fingered hand on the strap of a messenger bag as he shook Arthurâs hand.
âWhat brings you to the city?â the man was asking.
âIâm taking Leon here to school,â Arthur said, sitting back down and gesturing towards Leon, who lifted one hand in an awkward little wave. Einar raised his eyebrows so that one disappeared behind the wavy blond hair falling against his cheekbone.
âUniversity,â Leon felt the need to clarify, because the way Arthur insisted on saying it made him feel like a child.
The train bumped on the tracks, making Einar stumble in the aisle, so he grabbed the back of Leonâs seat. His bag swung into his shoulder.
âSorry,â he mumbled. Leon shook his head, smiling politely up at him, and Einar smiled back minutely, before turning to Arthur. âSo you⌠Work for the university now?â
Arthur shook his head, and Leon just knew he was going to say another one of his stupid confusing things. Sometimes, he thought the man did it on purpose.
âLeon is my ward.â
Yep, there it was.
âWard?â Einar looked down at Leon, who rolled his eyes, which made him smile. His eyes were a surprisingly dark blue, especially compared to his pale eyelashes.
âHis family has entrusted him to my care for now,â Arthur was explaining, which was a gross oversimplification of the whole mess that was that situation, and made Einar frown over at him.
âArthur, weâre the same age.â
âYes?â
âSo thatâs⌠How do you get a ward?â
âHe keeps saying that,â Leon muttered irritably. âIâm nearly twenty.â
Surprisingly, he heard Einar hum a little laugh, while Arthur just said, âItâs a long story,â as if that explained anything.
Leon looked up at Einar, who quirked his thin eyebrows and smiled when he shrugged. He smelled like pine and firewood, which seemed out of place on a train.
âWe should meet up sometimeâoh, excuse me.â Arthur pulled his buzzing phone out and looked at the screen. âMust take this.â He stood and walked quickly out of the carriage with a clipped, âKirkland.â
âSure,â Einar said dryly, and then he sprawled into the manâs seat.
âHow do you know Arthur?â Leon asked. Einar vaguely waved one elegant hand around.
âWe went to school together. High school. Had this little gang of nerds.â He looked at Leon from underneath his eyelashes, then leaned forward. âWhat dâyou study?â
âOh, uh, criminology.â And, because everyoneâs next question was always if he wanted to be a cop, âI want to go into research. Maybe lab work.â
âThatâs admirable,â Einar said. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, tucking his ankles between Leonâs. âIs Arthur still at the apothecary?â
Leon nodded. âItâs how my family knows him.â He blinked at Einar, suddenly amused. âWait, a gang of nerds? That seems, like, contradictory.â
Einar smiled enigmatically and tucked his hair behind one ear. Leon, whoâd never had any problems picturing Arthur as a high school nerd, found it difficult to visualize this man as such. There was a quiet elegance about him that was pretty distracting.
âWe really were, though. Or at the very least, we upset the teachers plenty by showinâ up at all hours to look for ghosts or play Magic: The Gathering in the basement.â
âOh my god!â Leon laughed. âReally? How many of you were there?â
âJust three, mostly, although others definitely joined in every now and then.â Einar seemed amused, and his ankle, which was bare between his jeans and his shoe, pressed to Leonâs. âAnd to my dying day, Iâll proclaim my innocence about cominâ up with any of these plans. All Arthur and Dragos.â
âHm.â Leon leaned forward. âBut what would the evidence show?â
With a languid smirk spreading across his face, Einar only sprawled more in Arthurâs seat.
âI believe I have the right to remain silent.â It was the way his dark eyes flicked down Leonâs body that gave Leon the courage to smirk back. He shook his hair out of his face.
âSure, but body language always speaks volumes, doesnât it?â he said. His own body certainly did; his heart beat fast, and he swallowed heavily when Einar nudged their knees together by spreading his legs. On the face of it, it seemed innocent enough, but the sprawl he was in felt absolutely indecent to Leon.
The train was braking for the next station, which meant that there was only one more stop before he and Arthur had to get off.
âAinât that the truth,â Einar mumbled, biting his lip.
Arthur was still holding up his phone conversation, which involved a lot of âhave you looked in the other drawer?â and âno, the other drawerâ, even as the train came to a halt and some new passengers entered the carriage. Luckily, it still wasnât very crowded, and no one bothered to ask Leon to move his luggage. So he just sat there, with Einarâs legs pressed between his, while the train started moving again.
âNext stopâs mine,â he told Einar, who nodded, lip still between his teeth.
Just as he opened his mouth to speak, Arthur entered the carriage again, and both of them straightened up. Arthur just smiled and thanked Einar for keeping his seat for him.
âNo problem at all,â Einar told him, standing. âWe really should catch up, Arthur. Iâm sure Dragos would like to see you, too.â
âCertainly! Here.â Arthur handed Einar his phone, and the manâpresumablyâprogrammed his number in, then looked over at Leon.
âIfâLeon here needs any help⌠Gettinâ around the city or anything, Iâd be happy toâŚâ
Arthur was nodding, and so Einar handed his phone over to Leon in turn, smirking conspiratorially. He saved his contact info simply as âLeon Liâ.
The train started braking again, and Arthur began gathering Leonâs luggage.
âNice to meet you, Leon Li,â Einar said, his cold fingers brushing Leonâs when he took his phone back.
âYeah.â Leon glanced at Arthur. âSee you around, maybe.â
âIâd like that.â
Leon shouldered his bag, and followed Arthur to the train doors. It was time to go meet his new roommate.
-
âPeople tell me all the time how much I look like Einar and you didnât realize?â Egill asks, choosing to focus on that instead of all the blatant flirting. He doesnât know how his brother does it, honestly. Well, Leonâs disarming, he supposes, in a way. Itâs why theyâre friends.
âWell, itâs not like it makes any sense for that to happen!â Leon says. âAlso, your hair was literally purple.â
Oh, right, it had been.
âYeah, alright. But you mustâve realized pretty soon, right?â
âUh, it took a while, actually.â Leon taps his fingers on his phone. Turns the screen on and off. âWe had other things to do, at first.â
Egill squints at him, then grimaces. âLeon, I donât want to hear about my brotherâs sex life!â
âWhat? No, thatâs not even it. Look, it took us until two months into the school year to even meet again.â
-
Leon wouldâve liked to see Einar soon, if just to see if it was a fluke, the way the man had looked at him, or if the crackle it had sent down his spine would be more than a one-off. But, with the start of his second year at university, and settling into the new apartment with his roommateâwho was a cool guy, Leon thought, even if heâd taken a while to warm up to himâthere just never seemed to be time. Einar had texted, not long after they met, and he took Leonâs excuses in stride. His texts were friendly, mostly, although he always responded in kind when Leon dared to make a slightly flirtatious comment. He sent nice pictures of the city, or little observations, and seemed interested in hearing about Leonâs lectures.
So, when they finally did agree to meet, Leon felt like he had somewhat of an understanding of who Einar was, and vice versa, and he rather liked it.
There was definitely a crackle under his skin when Leon spotted Einar at the local park where they were meeting and Einarâs dark blue gaze swept down his body again. Standing up from the bench heâd been sat on, Einar smoothed out his woolen coat and smiled at Leon as he removed his headphones.
âHello, Leon Li,â he said, and Leon rolled his eyes.
âJust Leon will do. Hi.â
âIf you say so. Nice to see you again.â Einar held out a hand, which Leon shook, politely, although he took the opportunity to step close to him, so that he had to tilt his head back to meet Einarâs eye. Einar only smiled some more, slowly, and swept his fingers briefly over Leonâs wrist, under his coat.
âYâknow, I wasnât joking,â he said. âAbout showinâ you around the city, if you want.â His fingertips now curled into Leonâs palm as he finally drew his hand back, which made Leon shiver.
Much as he wanted to make a flirtatious comment right then about just what Einar could show him, he decided to save it for later, if the opportunity arose. Instead, he nodded.
âI havenât really gotten out a lot, I guess.â
âYeah, I remember that from university. Wanna go get some food?â
âSure.â
Gently touching Leonâs back, Einar led them out of the park and into the winding streets of the old city, while Leon told him about how his classes were goingâthat, one of these days, he might get used to hearing about all the horrible things people do to each other.
âWhat did you study?â he asked Einar, because that had somehow never come up in all of their texts, and the man smiled wryly.
âMedieval history. And now I edit a newspaper, soâŚâ He frowned. âI forgot to ask, any food⌠Allergies, or preferences?â
âWill it change where you take me?â Leon asked curiously as they crossed a bridge into a less busy part of town.
âHm, I could probably think of many places to take you. Itâs just good to know.â The smirk Leon could see out of the corner of his eye told him that Einar definitely knew what he was saying. âYou know, what if I want to make you dinner?â
âWhat if you made me breakfast?â Leon replied, and watched as a corner of Einarâs lips ticked up again, though he didnât reply. âAnyway, Iâm lactose intolerant, but nothing too bad.â
âGood.â Guiding him down an alley, Einar pushed open the door of a little cafĂŠ and gestured Leon in.
The odd thing was, Leon thought as they ate some delicious pastries, that it felt⌠Easy. It felt as though he knew Einar already. And, sure, he never really had problems connecting with people, but still.
âYou got any plans for the rest of the afternoon?â Einar asked, looking at Leon over the rim of his dainty little coffee cup with those peculiar eyes.
âNot really.â He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and was sure he saw Einar smile as he sipped coffee. âAny ideas?â
âHm⌠I could show you the river, or we could go to a museumâŚâ
âOr we could make out,â Leon said, emboldened. He grinned when that made Einar splutter into his coffee, pale skin turning red. Oh, he had freckles! They stood out when he blushed.
âI guess we could do that, too,â he mumbles. Cleared his throat. âVery straightforward. I like that, Leon.â
Leon wet his lips, which Einar unsubtly watched, but then, the man frowned, and Leon met his eye.
âLook, we donât have to,â he said.
âOh, believe me, I wanna. But I do feel like we oughta talk about it first.â And, at Leonâs nod, he leaned forward over the table as well, lowering his voice until the smooth sound rose just above the general hum of conversation. âYou barely know anything about me.â
âIsnât that exactly the point of, like, dating?â
âOkay, fair enough. You really wanna date a guy twelve years older than you?â
Leon quirked his eyebrows, saying, âIâve got no problems with that. A little into it, to be honest. Do you want to date a guy twelve years younger than you, Einar?â
âYâknow, I guess I do.â He blinked. âYouâre⌠My brotherâs age.â
His brother, huh. That hadnât been mentioned before either.
âIâm also my sisterâs age,â Leon offered. âOn account of how weâre twins.â
âHuh. Got more to learn about you, hm?â
âMuch more,â he replied, quirking his eyebrows again, and Einar smiled that languid smile that Leon already knew he would love to see more of, just because of the promise it held.
âAlright,â Einar breathed.
âYeah,â Leon agreed. âYou know, Iâd actually really like to see the river.â
âI can do that.â
Einar showed him the river, and they didnât quite get around to making out just yet, but Leon was honestly quite content with the way Einar tucked his hair behind his ear as they waited at the bus stop at the end of the afternoon, and how he swept his long fingers over his jaw softly.
âGoodnight, Leon Li,â he said, and laughed when Leon rolled his eyes, his bus pulling up.
âNight, Einar. Iâll hold you to dinner.â
-
âWhat I donât understand is why you didnât tell me. Did you tell anyone?â Egill frowns at Leon, who fidgets. Sure, it wouldâve been odd, but in the end, Egill only wants the best for both Einar and Leon; if âthe bestâ happens to be each other, then so be it.
âWe didnât really tell anyone,â Leon says. âIt wasnât even on purpose, at first. We were just, you know, going on a couple dates, having fun.â
âOh, god, did he make you his fish surprise?â Egill laughs when Leon grimaces. âSee, if Iâd known, I could have warned you to steer clear!â
âVery funny, Thomassen. Anyway, there is one person who found out.â
-
Einar looked a little dubious, which amused Leon.
âNot your thing, is it?â he asked, standing on his tiptoes to get close enough that Einar could hear him over the music. The man made a vague motion with his hand, letting it land on the back of Leonâs neck as he leaned down a little. The electronic beat thumped through both of them steadily.
âDâyou want me to be tactful about it?â
Intrigued, Leon raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
âWell, in that case, I feel like I could give a dog a drum machine and itâd be better than this.â
Leon couldnât help but laugh, which made Einar smile.
âFair enough.â When he turned his head, Einarâs sharp nose brushed through his choppy hair. âDo you want to get out of here?â
âIf itâs alright with you.â
Leon didnât mind; there would be plenty of time to check out this artist later, with friends who actually liked the music.
Once outside in the cold January evening, Einar turned to him as he was putting his earplugs away, saying, âYou know this means you got full permission to make fun of the music that I like.â
âWeâll just have to agree to disagree, I guess.â Leon bumped his shoulder into Einarâs arm as they walked down the street. âBesides, you should hear the stuff my roommateâs into. Sometimes, I think heâs trying to summon something with all the, like, chanting and flutes and all.â
âThat sounds like the things my brother likes.â
They had already reached the edge of the cityâs main nightlife area, and it was getting less crowded. Leon didnât have any particular destination in mind; over the past few months, it had continued to be easy to just spend time with Einar, and he was happy to do just that. Even if it meant walking outside in freezing weather, his fingers all but threatening to fall off.
As if Einar could feel it too, the man reached down and silently tangled their fingers together. Smiling ahead at the street, Leon tucked both of their hands into his coat pocket.
âHow come your hands are warm?â he asked. Einar squeezed his fingers.
âJust used to it, I guess.â
Before Leon could reply to that, they were both startled when a hoarse voice ahead of them called, âEinar! You didnât tell me you had a thing!â
Leonâs hand jerked, and Einar looked down at him with concern. He shook his head, squeezing the manâs long fingers in his coat pocket.
âNot that Iâm calling you a thing,â said the man the voice belonged to, halting in front of them. âUnless youâre into thatââ
âDragos!â Einar snapped, and the man grinned lopsidedly, rocking back on his heels.
âSorry, Iâll leave that to you.â He looked down at Leon with a frown. Although he was significantly less tall than Einar, both of them towered over him. âYou either got good genes or Einar never gets to make fun of me for dating a guy eight years older than me ever again.â
âDragosâŚâ Einar started again, while Leon looked up and said, deadpan, âI am 59 years old.â
The guy, Dragos, barked a laugh while Einar fell silent. Leon met his eye and shrugged, biting his lip to keep a grin down.
âI like this guy, Einar,â said Dragos, and why was that name familiar?
âMe too,â Einar told him, in such a quiet, earnest way that it made Leon shiver.
Hold onâŚ
âThis guy is the other member of your gang of nerds?â he asked Einar incredulously, and Einar actually grinned while Dragos started to sputter indignantly.
âYou have a good memory, Leon Li.â
âBut youâre⌠And heâsâŚâ He gestured with his free hand at Dragosâs floor-length coat and pointed boots and the eyeliner he was wearing, visible in the glow of streetlamps. âAnd Arthur is so⌠Arthur.â
âHe had a whole punk phase,â Dragos said. âBesides, I donât know if you know this, but this guy knits his own sweaters.â
With a jaunty little wave, he flounced off, while Einar angrily muttered, âItâs crochet and you know it.â And, calling after his friend, âHey, BÄlan, donât mention this to Arthur!â
âSure! See you later, Thomassen!â
âThomassen,â Leon echoed, just as Einar was about to say something to him.
âYeah, thatâs my surname.â A pause. âHm. Guess I hadnât mentioned that before.â
âEinarâŚâ Leon blinked up at him. âIs your brotherâs name Egill, by any chance?â
Einar blinked back. Nodded slowly.
âHuh. Small world.â
-
Leon shrugs once more.
âI donât know, I guess it felt kind of awkward to tell you at that point.â
Egill slumps against the back of the couch. Even if thatâs true, heâs sure another opportunity couldâve been found in the year since.
âI canât believe Dragos knew,â he just says. âOf all people.â
âYou know Dragos?â
âYes, I know Dragos! I was around when this infamous gang of nerds was formed.â
âOh my god! You knew teenage Arthur!â
âYes, butâLeon, I donât think thatâs the point right now.â
Sobering, Leon checks his phone again, and Egill does as well. There are no messages from his brother, and despite himself, heâs getting worried too.
âBut Dragos is the only person?â he asks Leon. âYou didnât even tell your sister?â
âDude, you know Mei. She canât keep a secret.â Leon sighs. âItâs mostly about the whole messâŚâ
âWith your uncle. Right.â
-
Wearing those platform boots, Einar was even taller than he usually was, and Leon might not understand his taste in musicâit all, unfortunately, just sounded like men with sore throats shouting a lot to himâhe very much enjoyed some of the outfits that came with it. The shoes made Einarâs long legs look even longer, and Leon focused on that. On how those legs would feel wrapped around his waist as he now knew they could be, or trembling around his shoulders.
It didnât quite seem to work like usual, though, and by the time Einar was done playing him a song on his violin that was surely very good, the man looked concerned. After putting his violin away, he slowly crouched in front of Leon, putting his hands on his thighs.
Swallowing, Leon met the familiar dark blue eyes. He still kind of felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner that Einar was his roommateâs brother, or at least related. They had very similar features, especially the striking eyes. And here, in Einarâs house, there were actually plenty of photographs of Egill, but heâd been very preoccupied the first time heâd visited.
âYouâve been quiet.â Einar curled his fingers into Leonâs jeans.
âI know. Sorry.â
Einar shook his head, blond hair covering one eye. Leon swiped it away, letting his hand linger over Einarâs sharp jaw.
âJust let me know if thereâs anything I can do?â
âI thinkâŚâ Spreading his legs, Leon pulled Einar closer until he leaned up and pressed himself against Leonâs chest. âFor right now, I think I just need to be distracted.â
âI can do that,â Einar breathed, voice heavy with promise and nudging their noses together. âYou sure thatâs what you need?â
âFor now,â Leon repeated, and he turned his face down to kiss Einar, immediately deepening it.
Einar leaned on his thighs to press back, the smell of pine and woodsmoke surrounding him. He tasted like coffee, as he nearly always did.
âI want to make a request,â Leon mumbled into his mouth.
âYeah? Whatever you want.â
âLeave the boots on.â
Einar pulled back and that slow smirk stretched across his slick lips.
âAs you wish.â
-
âHow the fuck is that relevant to the mess?â Einar shouts, desperately trying to erase the mental image his friendâs put in his head.
For his part, Leon is just laughing, doubling over on the edge of the coffee table.
âJesus Christ, Iâm suddenly very happy I was never informed.â
âItâsâitâs relevant, I promise,â Leon giggles.
-
While Einar finally tugged his boots off, Leon sat on his knees on his bed and leaned his forehead against the manâs bare back, letting his hair fall around his face. Einar stayed still until Leon shifted to rest his chin on the manâs shoulder, when he leaned his head back. Still quite flushed, the freckles on his nose and cheeks stood out. Leon absently carded his fingers through Einarâs hair, working out some tangles heâd probably caused himself.
âItâs about my uncle,â he eventually mumbled, his lips nearly against Einarâs neck.
âHm?â Einar nodded slightly. Reaching back, he swiped his fingers over the top of Leonâs free hand.
âI never really explained how Arthur came to be⌠You know, whatever Arthur is.â Leon took a deep breath. âIâve told you my uncle basically raised me and Mei. Heâs run the apothecary my whole life.â
Einar hummed again, fingers stroking gently. Heâd closed his eyes, listening.
âArthur came to work there when I was, like, fourteen.â Leon bit his lip. âAnyway, long story short, some shady stuff happened, my uncleâs gonna be on trial for something he definitely didnât do and so Arthurâs looked after us for a while and I really want to believe he wasnât involved but sometimes Iâm just not sure and I hate it, and I guess thatâs just been on my mind today.â
Throughout his tirade, Einar had slowly turned to him and was now watching him with something very close to incredulity.
âI feel like that was a very long story, very short,â he said, but his fingers were still softly caressing Leonâs.
âProbably.â Leon pressed his lips to the junction of Einarâs neck and shoulder more deliberately, tugging at his hair in a way he knew he liked. Sure enough, Einar made a small, choked noise.
âThatâs why you donât want to tell your family about us?â
âItâs part of it. If Yaoâs trial ever actually happens, I feel like we couldâŚâ He huffed. âMaybe it can be on your podcast.â
Einar, much to Leonâs amusement, had a podcast with the infamous Dragos, where they talked about legends and folklore. It did good numbers according to Einar, which Leon privately attributed mostly to Einarâs hypnotizing voice. Recently, Einar had confessed to him that what he really wanted to make was a true crime series, but Dragos just wasnât interested. Leon would love to hear it, and he had plenty of ideas to contribute. Not about his uncle, though.
âWho knows,â Einar said, softly. And, âReally, again, if thereâs anything I can doâŚâ
âHonestly, itâs just nice to be with you.â
That made him smile one of those rare, beaming smiles that Leon loved to see, even as he shifted and climbed back on to the bed, and pressed Leon down into the sheets to straddle him. His hair was all loose in a mess of pale blond waves around his face, and Leon raised his eyebrows at him, amused.
âItâs almost summer, Leon.â
âYeah?â It was; end-of-year exams were already underway.
âYou wanna go somewhere?â
âTogether?â
âYeah. Somewhere else.â He kissed Leon, slowly, until Leon arched into him. âI wanna take my time with you.â
âIâahâ That sounds awesome.â He bit his lip as Einar ran his teeth along his jaw. âI have someâideas.â
âAbout where we can go?â
Leon curled his fingers into Einarâs hair and tugged until the man looked up at him, blue eyes bright, flushed once more.
âIdeas about what exactly you could do with me, with all that time.â
âI have plenty of those, Leon Li,â Einar replied, and leaned back down.
-
âPlease donâtâoh my god!â Egill interrupts himself. âI fucking introduced you guys at the end of the school year, and Einar was all âHello, Leon Li,â and I thought it was odd butââ
âI mean, it is a little odd,â Leon agrees. âI like it, though.â
âWeirdo. So thatâs why you were so vague about your vacation? You spent it doing god-knows-what with my brotherâdo not tell me.â
 âThere was plenty of family-friendly stuff,â Leon protests. âOh!â He turns his phone on again and shows Egill a picture of him and Einar, looking disheveledâthough thankfully, fully clothedâon a riverbank. It looks nice, Egill thinks. They seem happy, and it makes sense somehow.
âHe managed to convince you to go camping?â
âIt was nice!â Leon says, smiling at his phone. âAs long as I donât have to his winter camping trips.â
âFair enough. So, what do you guys do?â He narrows his eyes at Leon, who chuckles, but his smile turns soft in a way that Egill has never seen.
âYou know. Stuff. We go to museums. We watch TV shows and then I watch ahead without him. I like to cook for him. He plays violin, or guitar, and I listen, or I play my keyboard. Stuff.â
âThatâs nice,â Egill says, sincerely. Leon shrugs, but heâs still smiling. âBut the mess with your uncle is basically done now, right?â
âBasically.â
âSoâŚâ
-
âWhatâre you doing here?â Leon asked incredulously. In the doorway of his and Egillâs apartment, Einar was framed by the hallway light, which shone through his wavy hair like a halo. He hoisted his shoulder bag up and didnât immediately answer, biting his lip instead.
âWell, come in. Egill isnât here.â
âYeah, heâs home for the weekend,â Einar said. âI think him and dad went skiing.â
âAlright.â
âI heard your uncle got acquitted.â
Leon took a deep breath, leaning both hands on the kitchen counter, where heâd been waiting for water to boil for tea when the doorbell rang.
âHe did.â He turned around, leaning back against the counter. The kettle clicked off.
âThatâs great news, right?â
He nodded, smiling slightly. It really was. Finally, he and Mei had their uncle back, and they didnât have to lose another parental figure.
âWould youâŚâ Einar took a breath. âWould you introduce him to me?â
Leon looked up at him, somehow startled by the question.
âOr your sister. She sounds great. OrâŚâ He stepped closer, and Leon hopped backwards on to the kitchen counter as heâd done many times in Einarâs house, to make them more level. Einar stepped between his legs as he always did, spreading his hands over his thighs.
âI want to,â Leon breathed. âYao would like you, I think, and Meiâs gonna tease me. But itâsâŚâ
âI donât want to keep thisâusâa secret anymore,â Einar whispered, leaning their foreheads close together. âI will, if you want that, if you arenât ready, but I want to⌠I wanna introduce you to my parents, Leon. I wanna have Egill be disgusted at how much I like you. I wannaââ
Leon swore under his breath and kissed him quiet, curling his legs around the manâs thighs to pin him to the kitchen cabinets.
âIâm justâŚâ Leon took a deep breath and met Einarâs eye. âItâs still not clear who is guilty. And I still donât know if ArthurâŚâ
âWhat if he is? What difference does it make for us?â
âI donâtâif Yaoâs back, and this was all about control of the apothecary, and Arthur had something to do with itâŚâ
âLeon,â Einar said softly, reaching up to push his hair from his face with ever-cold fingers, âdo you think he did?â
âI donât want to, but after everything, I just donât know, Einar,â Leon confessed.
âAnd what does the evidence say?â
Leon paused. Huffed a laugh while Einar smiled a soft, fond smile, swiping his thumb over his cheekbone.
âLook, if all youâre worried about is Arthur Kirkland, Iâll talk to him, when youâre ready. Even if he did something, it has nothing to do with you, and certainly nothing with me.â
âI guess that is the only thing. Itâs stupid.â
âMaybe.â Einar shrugged. âDoesnât mean you canât be worried about it. Iâm claustrophobic.â
âHuh. Not really the same thing, butâŚâ Leon nodded. âIâd like to meet your parents, Einar. Actually, your mom brought Egill food once. You look like her, both of you.â
Einar smiled wryly.
âBut⌠Give me a couple more weeks. I need some time with my uncle, I think.â
âThatâs alright. I can think about what to say to Arthur that doesnât end with him thinkinâ Iâm a creep.â
âIâm 21,â Leon grumbled, even as Einar pressed his lips to his forehead.
For a moment, they just stood thereâor sat on the kitchen counterâsilently tangled around each other.
âWanna watch Ghost Adventures?â Leon asked, eventually.
Einar laughed. âSure, letâs watch Ghost Adventures.â
-
âHe said heâd go talk to Arthur yesterday,â Leon finishes. âAnd I havenât heard from him since.â
Egill frowns. âAnd Arthur?â
âNot answering anything either.â
That certainly is odd, Egill thinks. He canât really imagine Arthur Kirkland harming anyone, but then again, Leon probably knows him better, at this point. And he certainly knows more about psychology than Egill, who studies geology and mostly knows things about rocks, and tectonic plates, and volcanoes. He knows a lot about volcanoes.
âDo you think I should call the police?â Leon is asking, flipping his phone over and over between his fingers, like a card in a magic trick.
âMaybe we should go to Einarâs place first,â Egill suggests. âArenât you supposed to wait 24 hours or something to report someone missing, anyway?â
âCommon misconception. If Einar would just make his podcast, youâd know. Alright.â Leon abruptly stands up. âIâm gonna goââ
âMe too,â says Egill, rising too. Leon blinks at him. âLeon, youâre my best friend. Even if it werenât my brother we were talking about, of course Iâd help out.â
ââŚThank you.â
Somehow, at the exact moment that the both of them are in the hall of their apartment to get their coats, the doorbell rings. They look at each other, startled. The bell rings again.
Leon stands on his tiptoes to look through the peephole, gasps, and yanks the door open.
Einar all but falls into the hall, looking tired and disheveled but otherwise fine, and Leon immediately drags him down to kiss him, holding tight to the collar of his coat while Einar buries his hands in Leonâs messy hair.
Pressing his lips together awkwardly, Egill looks away, and only then notices that Einar wasnât aloneâArthur Kirkland is standing out in the hallway, equally as tired as Einar and as awkward as Egill, but he has quite a nasty bruise on his jaw. With a sigh, Egill waves him in, shutting the door behind him.
âWell, itâs been quite the day,â Arthur says dryly.
âWhat the hell happened?â Egill asks him, because his brother is a little preoccupied whispering against Leonâs lips, slumped against the wall as if he canât hold his own weight up. Arthur clears his throat lightly.
âTo make a long story short⌠Yesterday afternoon, Einar was at the right place, at the right time, quite possibly saved my life, we got several people arrested, and we spent the night at the police station giving statements.â
âIâm sorry, what the fuck?â Egill bursts. Leon just stares up at Einar, who shrugs, as though this all makes perfect sense.
âMy phone got smashed,â he says. And, âItâs not how I thought itâd go, but it worked out.â
âWorked out!â Leon echoes, tugging at his coat again. âI was so worried! I thought Iâfuckââ
âI love you, Leon Li,â Einar whispers, barely loud enough for Egill to hear, but he gets a little choked up at just the soft expression on his brotherâs face.
âRight,â he says, turning to Arthur while Leon whispers unintelligibly into Einarâs chest. âDo you want some coffee? You look like you need it.â
âAhâright.â Arthur blinks, glancing once more at Leon and Einar. âIf you have tea, thatâd be nice.â
âProbably.â Egill leads Arthur into the apartment, glancing back once into the entrance hall. Einar smiles at him overtop Leonâs head, and Egill nods, smiling back.
Hopefully, heâll get the rest of that story one day.
I heard it's @lietweek so I bring some liet! I'm a big fan of Random Bystander POV, especially looking at characters who aren't human, so here's one of those! tangentially, this is for the prompt hurt/comfort :)
.
the road of life
characters: Lithuania + 1 random human
word count: 995
summary:
On a summer day in Vilnius, a woman meets someone familiar, although she has never seen him before.
.
MiglÄ is staring at nothing in particular and shredding pieces off her supermarket sandwich, when she's startled.
âDo you mind if I sit here?â a man is asking, and though his voice is soft, itâs enough to make MiglÄ jump. She looks up at the man, who is patiently standing next to the park bench sheâs on, facing the water. Heâs in a tie and slacks, holding a battered notebook in one hand and a cup of takeaway coffee in the other.
âOh, no, go ahead,â MiglÄ tells him, and he smiles kindly as he sits down on the bench next to her. For a few seconds, he closes his eyes and leans back into the pleasant shadow of the trees. He canât be much older than her, she guesses, although he looks tired, worn around the edges. Then again, MiglÄ most likely looks tired herself. Sighing, she shreds her sandwich some more, eating some bits of it.
Behind the bench, on the other side of the water, the city is alive with the sounds of tourists, workers and students, and MiglÄ wonders which of these the man next to her is, if any. Tourist seems unlikely if just from his outfit.
She glances at the man out of the corner of her eye, to find that he's pulled a bright purple scrunchie out from somewhere and is tying his shoulder-length hair back with it. When he catches her eye, he just smiles, almost apologetic as if he knows itâs a little strange. MiglÄ canât help but smile back.
âItâs very warm,â the man offers. She nods.
His hair is dark brown, but when he shifts into the sunlight, she can see some grey shot through at the temples. Heâs quite handsome.
âItâs always getting warmer, lately,â he adds absently, while rolling up his sleeves. Across his forearms, MiglÄ can see the faint, pale lines of crisscrossing scars. She quickly looks away.
âYou⌠Sound like youâre from the North,â she says instead, looking up at the manâs tired eyes. Theyâre green, startlingly so. MiglÄ didnât think people actually had eyes that green, the color of a pine forest, or maybe a stormy sea.
âSo do you,â the man is saying, taking a sip of coffee. âWhat brings you all the way to Vilnius?â
Shrugging, MiglÄ answers, âYou know, the usual. Work, mostly. Love, although thatâsâŚâ She tears off another piece of her sandwich.
âYes, I know what thatâs like,â he says softly. He sounds so familiar, as if he could have been her neighbor growing up.
It isnât as though MiglÄ never meets other people from her home region in Vilnius, but something about this man and his kind voice and tired smile makes her fiercely miss the placeâthe fields and backroads and familiar people. Swallowing heavily, she blinks at the man while he just looks at her with those strange eyes. It should be unnerving, and she canât figure out why it isnât.
âSo, what⌠Brings you to Vilnius?â she asks him.
âItâs a long story,â he replies, and his eyes scrunch at the corners when he smiles. âBut much of it, I think, is probably the same as yours.â
MiglÄ bites her lip. For his sake, she hopes that it isnât, but she can see in his face that it must be. That, possibly, whatever heâs been through would make her struggles pale in comparison. And yet, here he is, in his slacks and his seashell-patterned tie, drinking coffee on a Vilnius park bench.
And, of course, here she is, as well. That must count for something, right?
A gentle breeze ruffles the manâs ponytail and carries a whiff of a smell over that is somehow familiar as well. Like her fatherâs infamous stew, maybe, or freshly-harvested fields back home.
âHave we ever met before?â MiglÄ asks the man, leaning a little towards him.
âWhoâs to say?â
âReally. Something about you⌠Iâm from AuksĹŤdys.â She watches him absentmindedly touch his shoulder. He has long, ink-stained fingers, and many little nicks on his index finger.
âI havenât been there in a while,â he mumbles. And then something under his breath that she canât make out, while he quickly opens his little notebook and jots something down. His handwriting is spidery, the kind MiglÄ would expect in letters from centuries past.
âWhere do you work?â he asks as he looks up again.
âAt⌠The government.â She doesnât go into more detail than that, because that would surely bore him.
âReally?â
âI want to⌠Do better. To help the country.â MiglÄ knows itâs vague, and itâs hard to remember that goal sometimes, but the man on the bench next to her smiles warmly.
âThe country will certainly appreciate your help,â he says, which should, of course, sound completely ridiculousâthe kind of stupid joke her friends back home would have madeâbut MiglÄ believes him somehow, and a hesitant but real new determination blooms under her skin.
âThank you,â she says, and watches the man stand after he tips the last of his coffee back.
âNo, thank you.â He bows his head, some strands of hair escaping from his purple scrunchie and falling around his face. âPerhaps weâll meet again someday, MiglÄ.â
As he leaves, he tosses his empty coffee cup in a trash bin, and MiglÄ can only stare after him, dumbfounded. He didnât sound like he was from the North anymore, but she couldnât have pinpointed this accent. Who is he? Somehow, it isnât surprising that he knew her nameâalthough it would have been terrifying in any other case.
Something in MiglÄ tells her that she definitely knows his name as well, that itâs written not just in her passport but into her very being, and into every street in this city. In this country.
âThatâs ridiculous,â she mutters to herself, and then quickly eats the many bits of her sandwich before she can say the one name she keeps thinking.
I changed my URL back :) but anyway, robul! I've realized that a bunch of the robul I've posted on this blog has been like... sad, but then nearly everything on ao3 has been pretty Not Sad :0 this fic is here to buck one of those trends, in that it's very light-hearted and pretty silly! it's also given me a bunch of new headcanons, which is always cool! I want you guys to know that the placeholder summary for this was 'stupid idiots in love, too stupid to know they're in love', which covers it pretty well
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(I'd Be) Better Off With You
pairings/characters: Bulgaria (Stefan)/Romania (Dragos), Norway (Einar), Belarus (Nadzeya), Sweden (TorbjĂśrn), Hungary (ErzsĂŠbet), Moldova (Luca)
word count: 6473
summary:
In which Stefan makes Dragos better food, Dragos makes Stefan wear better clothes, and literally everyone knows they're dating except the two of them.
Also on AO3!
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By the time Dragos finally finishes up, it is very nearly dark outside despite it being early June.
With a sigh, he tidies up his shop and walks into his adjoining apartment through the back door. There, he realizes that the delicious smell heâs been noticing over the course of the evening, wasnât coming from one of his neighborsâ kitchens as heâd thought, when he finds Stefan in his kitchen, humming under his breath and stirring a bubbling sauce in a pot.
âI didnât think I had food,â Dragos says, by way of greeting. His stomach rumbles.
âYou didnât.â Stefan covers the pot and turns to him, leaning back against the kitchen counter. The shirt heâs wearing is threadbare, the hems actually frayed. Itâs a shirt Dragos distinctly remembers telling him not to wear anymore, at least not in public, but then he supposes his kitchen isnât public.
âHm. Okay.â Dragos pauses. âHold on, when did you get here?â
âI said hi to you! You were setting up your game.â
Dragos is sure he doesnât remember that, but alright. It wouldnât be the first time he got a little caught up in his preparations. Nor, of course, is it the first time Stefan has shown up unannounced in his kitchen.
âAnd what if Iâd been eagerly anticipating takeout pizza, huh?â he asks him, even as he starts maneuvering around him to pull out plates and cutlery for two. Stefan turns back to the stove with a scoff and doesnât answer. Dragos grins.
Itâs nice, the way Stefan will take time out of his day to make sure heâs fed. There isnât any reason Dragos couldnât do it himself, of course, but he has to admit Stefan is a better cook. Besides, he seems to enjoy it, so, win-win. Especially if he can talk him into putting other clothes on at some point.
âDâyou want wine?â Dragos asks, because he might not have had any food, but he certainly has that.
âItâs a Wednesday, Dragos.â
âAnd?â
âAnd Iâm not twenty anymore.â Stefan looks at him with one eye. âMaybe one glass. Red, if you have it.â
Of course he does.
Stefan does only drink one glass of wine with his amazing pasta, whichâyeah, he really isnât twenty anymore, Dragos supposes, because he remembers him drinking far too much on a far too regular basis when they were that age. Itâs probably a good thing heâs stopped doing that. Unfortunately, Dragos isnât twenty anymore either, so despite having only two glasses himself, heâs slightly unsteady on his feet when he sees Stefan off later that evening.
He watches him go around back, through the small courtyard there thatâs mostly filled with junk, and also Dragosâs bike, which heâs protective of but might as well be junk. Especially since Stefan accidentally kicks the front wheel on his way out, and Dragos giggles when he apologizes to the bike before clasping his shoulder and telling him itâs okay. Even if he is still wearing his shitty shirt.
Kindly, Stefan has left the leftover pasta for Dragos, which is good because he still has no other food, after all. Really, what would he do without him?
-
When it is time for his lunch break, Dragos quickly ducks out of the shop and into his apartment, where he heats his leftover pasta in the microwave. He carries the plate back into the shop, sitting down to eat at the table where they host their TTRPGs. Behind the register, Einar looks up from the many granny squares heâs been crocheting between customers.
âThat smells nice,â he comments. âThatâs why you didnât want Nadz to get you lunch?â
With a chime of the shop bell, Nadzeya returns just then, brandishing cartons of fried fish from the local market, so Einar puts his crocheting down to take one from her, nodding his thanks. She sweeps into the side room in a cloud of black fabric and eyes Dragosâs pasta suspiciously.
âWhereâd you get that?â
âStefan made it.â
That makes her look over her shoulder at Einar, who shrugs.
âHeâs bringing you lunch now?â she asks, pushing her sleeves up to dip a piece of fish in sauce.
âNo, of course not!â Dragos laughs. âHeâs got a job, you know. He made dinner last night, Iâm lucky enough to get the leftovers.â
âI see,â Nadzeya says slowly, chewing on her fish.
Dragos shrugs and eats some more pasta. It really is very good. Heâll have to ask Stefan if heâd make it again. He could even make sure he keeps the ingredients on hand.
âSoâŚâ Einar is coming over to lean against the doorframe, fish in hand. âHe stayed at your place?â
âWhat, where would he stay?â Dragos frowns. They both know heâs only got one bed, and his shitty couch, which he would never ask anyone to sleep on, least of all Stefan.
Einar and Nadzeya exchange an indecipherable look that ends with Einar shrugging once more and Nadzeya sighing.
âGuys, whatâs up? I thought you liked Stefan.â Or maybe theyâre jealous of his pasta?
âOh my god,â Nadzeya mutters. âYeah, sure, Dragos, heâs a nice dude.â
âQuite handsome,â Einar puts in, which makes her snort for some reason, though Dragos couldnât say why. It is true; Stefan is quite handsome, with his bright green eyes and his perpetual stubble, even if he has no sense of fashion.
âSure, but I didnât think he was your type,â he just tells Einar, who, as far as Dragos knows, is more into tall blond guys, âthough Iâm sure I couldââ
The bell over the shop door chimes to announce the arrival of a customer and Einar uncharacteristically rushes over to assist, so Dragos doesnât finish his sentence. He turns to his last bit of pasta instead.
âYouâre a fucking idiot,â Nadzeya tells him, but she does that at least twice a day and Dragos has long since given up trying to figure out what it is he did wrong this time, so he ignores her, takes his plate back to his kitchen, and goes to see if the customer needs any help.
-
Stefan hears TorbjĂśrn greet someone at the front of the workshop, but doesnât pay attention to it until a shadow covers the chair heâs working on. He squints down at the wood, then up. The only clue he really needed was the ridiculous leather pants, but he smiles up at Dragosâs face anyway, putting his sanding tool down.
âHey Dra,â he says, as he sits up and dusts off his jeans. âWhat brings you here?â
âNothing, really. Wellâoh!â Dragos shuffles his shoulder bag around to dig into it. âI got you a pastry. Only seems fair, yeah?â
He holds a crumpled paper bag out to Stefan, who has already closed his fingers around it when he looks up at his friendâs grin and notices⌠A glint.
Standing up abruptly, he leans close to Dragos, which only makes him grin wider, rust-brown eyes crinkling at the corners. As usual, his smile is slightly lopsided and Dragos is touching his tongue to a sharp canine, but what isnât usual is the shimmer of metal beneath his upper lip, glinting silver.
âWhen the hell did you get that?â Stefan asks, incredulous. He saw him yesterday!
âJust now! Itâs called a smiley piercing, isnât that cute?â
That is cute, and Stefan thinks itâs very suited to Dragos, but he shakes his head in confusion and gestures with his mystery pastry.
âDragos, youâre afraid of needles!â
âOh, geez, am I?â He rolls his eyes ostentatiously, still grinning. âItâs not like I can see into my mouth, is it?â
The glint of metal is there every time he speaks, distracting Stefan. He frowns.
âYou made me come with you when you got that tattoo.â
âWellââ
âThe tattoo that is on your back.â
âThatâsâno, thatâs different.â Dragos pauses. Tilts his head, tucking some wispy hair thatâs escaped from its ponytail behind his ear. âDid you want to come?â
âNo?â Stefan thinks about it. âNo. You can take care of yourself.â
Another smile, and Dragos brushes sawdust off his shoulders in that way he does; there must not be any in Stefanâs hair for him to finger-comb out.
âSo you just⌠Came here to show me you got a piercing?â That just gets him a quirk of Dragosâs thin eyebrows. Alright.
âI guess I also wanted to tell you Iâm not supposed to eat anything spicy for two weeks.â
Aw, really? Stefan wanted to make goulash. He must look disappointed, because Dragos grasps his shoulders and says, âOh, Iâm sorry!â with such an earnest expression that it makes him laugh. He touches one of his arms.
âIt looks nice, Dra.â
A grin. Smiley, huh? How fitting.
âAnyway, Iâm sure youâre busy, so Iâll leave you to it! Enjoy your pastry!â Dragos flounces off through the workshop in a little whirl of color. âBye, TorbjĂśrn!â
âBye,â TorbjĂśrn says, possibly sounding amused. Itâs hard to tell, with him, especially compared to Dragos. Both because Dragos wears his heart on his sleeve, and because Stefan has known Dragos since they were kids.
ââS nice,â TorbjĂśrn tells Stefan as he walks over to put his pastry safely away for now. âUsed to bring Tuomi lunch when he worked âround here.â
âThatâs sweet. Not really the same, though.â
TorbjĂśrn and Tuomi have been married for over a decade, after all.
âHm,â TorbjĂśrn just says, which could mean anything, so Stefan shrugs and gets back to work.
-
If it were possible, Dragos is sure he would have broken the speed limit on his rickety bicycle, thatâs how fast he rushes to the local hospital after he gets a cryptic call. Once there, he hurries to the second floor when the receptionist directs him up.
âIs it Luca?â he shouts, bursting into a silent hallway. For the first time in his life, he is mildly relieved to see ErzsĂŠbet HĂŠdervĂĄry sprawled in a plastic chair, looking at her phone.
âYour brother is fine, BÄlan,â she drawls. âStefan fell down a flight of fucking stairs, though, and they wonât let him leave with me.â
âA flight of stairs? Is heâwait, why am I here?â Though he doesnât understand why, he knows ErzsĂŠbet is Stefanâs friend, just like he is, so there is no reason he should have any more right to check Stefan out of this place.
âWell, his mother lives on the other side of the country.â ErzsĂŠbet is standing up.
âButâŚâ
âUgh, BÄlan, just because youâre not fucking married yet doesnât mean they wonât let him go with you.â She thrusts a bundle of fabric into Dragosâs hands, glaring up at him and jerking her chin at the door behind her. âTell him he owes me one.â
And off she goes.
Dragos decides to ignore her, as he usually does, and walks into the hospital room to find Stefan sitting on the edge of a bed. He smiles when he spots Dragos, a sheepish edge to it. The only indicators of injury are a bandage wrapped around his right wrist and some scraping on both arms, and a bruise on his temple.
âWhy did you fall down a flight of stairs?â Dragos asks.
Stefan bristles. âWhat do you mean, why? I didnât mean toâand ErzsĂŠbet is exaggerating, I fell down the steps out front of her building!â
Yeah, that sounds like her. And yes, Dragos is biased against her, but still. He frowns, pushing his tongue up against his still-healing smiley piercing.
âYou look stupid,â Stefan says, now sounding petulant, which makes Dragos smile. âShut up. Anyway, they wonât let me go until theyâre sure someoneâll watch over me. I guess Iâve got a mild concussion. And I sprained my wrist.â
âHey, at least itâs your right!â Dragos tells him, trying to lift his spirits. And, âIâll watch over you, no problem.â
That, at least, gets Stefan to smile as he stands up. Dragos unfurls the fabric ErzsĂŠbet has given him to find that itâs one of his own jackets, one he made Stefan take some time ago because blue just looks much better on himâand because Stefan has no idea it does, which means itâs up to Dragos to make sure he looks alright. It is a pretty chilly day for July, he supposes.
âHere.â Holding the jacket out, Dragos helps Stefan into it, careful not to jostle his wrist, and he dutifully buttons it up as well. âThere you go.â
He smiles at Stefan, and the answering smile is soft. With the backs of his fingers, Dragos brushes the manâs bruised cheekbone.
âAh!â A nurse, entering the room. âI see Mr Borisovâs partner is here!â He flashes a smile at Dragos. âNow, Iâm sure youâll be fine in no time, Stefan.â
âThanks,â Stefan mumbles. âDraââ
âYeah, letâs go, then.â
Theyâve made it nearly to the exit when he realizes, âWeâre gonna have to take the bus, though.â
That will surely be annoying, but Stefan just hums, turning his face towards the weak sun when they step outside. His bruises donât seem so bad in this light, especially when the breeze ruffles his dark hair over his forehead.
ââM glad you came out for me, Dra,â he says, and Dragos grins happily all the while until he has to drag his bike on to a city bus.
-
âOh! Stefan!â
Startled, Stefan turns to the side room of the shop, from where Luca waves him over.
âWhatâs up?â
âDra!â Luca calls, ducking back into the room.
âNo need to yell,â Dragos says in a huff, though his face lights up when he sees Stefan, who smiles back.
Apart from the BÄlan brothers, Einar and Nadzeya are also present, all seated around the large table, which is currently set up for one of their fantasy games. Stefan does not understand any of them; his only contribution over the many years heâs known Dragos has been to carve several small creatures out of wood, which Dragos has always been delighted by.
âJust the man we need,â Dragos is saying now, rising from his chair. Einar, who is at the head of the table, puts a heavy book pages-down and leans his elbows on it.
âMe?â Stefan asks. Dragos grasps his shoulders and gazes earnestly at him, eyes bright. Their eyes are perfectly level, which must mean heâs wearing heeled shoes again.
âYes, you, Stef. We needâoh!â He looks down into the bag slung over his shoulder and grins. âFinally time for goulash, huh?â
Stefan nods. Itâs been three weeks.
âExcellent.â The piercing is visible when he smiles.
âDragos,â Nadzeya says, sounding annoyed and leaning back precariously on her chairâs hind legs.
âRight! Weâve got a problem!â Dragos gestures at the room at large, leaving one hand on Stefanâs shoulder. âArthurâs bailed on us!â
âDra, I donât know how to play yourââ
âNot that! Though youâre always welcome to try, you know that. No, see, thereâs a festival coming up, and Lucâs friends are going as the Fellowship, okay?â
âSure,â Stefan says, because sometimes itâs easier to just pretend to know what Dragos is talking about and circle back later.
âRight, and the four of usââ he gestures againââare normally the White Council, but Arthurâs gone and so I thought you could be our Elrond!â He grins triumphantly, and Stefan just blinks at him.
âI have no idea what you just said.â
Nadzeya drawls, âThe gist of it was, do you wanna dress up as an elf?â
An elf? Like Santaâs helpers?
âCool elf,â Dragos clarifies. âWarrior and lord and all that. Very powerful. Heâs played by Hugo Weaving!â
âI donât know who that is. Also, played in what?â
âLord of the Rings! I showed you Lord of the Rings, Stef.â Heâs still holding one shoulder, squeezing or pulling gently with every other word as heâs wont to do. Stefan tries to recall any films about rings he might have been shown.
âWas that the movie with the⌠Like, little guys?â
Luca snorts, but Dragos nods, his expression caught somewhere between pained and amused.
âI donât remember any elves.â
âYeah, you fell asleep before they even left the Shire.â And, before Stefan can question what that means, âThat doesnât matter, though!â
âI mean,â Nadzeya says, âdoesnât it? Arthur knows basically the whole Silmarillion by heart, heâd be appalled. Maybe you should try reading a book, Borisov.â
Dragos immediately whirls around to glare at her, though Stefan just shrugs.
âI could try,â he says. âPretty damn dyslexic, though.â
âAlright. Didnât know that.â She tips her head towards him, and he nods back. Dragos turns to him again, light brown hair fanning around his face. Heâs been wearing it up lately, claiming itâs too warm down, and itâs kind of nice to see it loose. It looks more familiar.
âSo, normally Iâm Elrond, but youâve already got dark hair anyway, and we know you fit my clothes.â
âIâm sorry, why do we know that?â Luca interrupts. And then, immediately, âNo, actually, do not answer that.â
Einar morosely mutters, âItâs gonna be completely innocuous.â Which, yes, of course, what other reason would there be? Stefan is content to let Dragos shove clothes at him, because it seems to make him happy and that is always a worthy cause in his book.
And so, he says, âSure, Dra, Iâll dress up as this Allround character.â
Dragos beams, clasping both his shoulders.
âWho are you, then?â Stefan asks, because he knows Dragos will want to tell him even if it wonât mean a thing to him.
âSaruman! Heâs like⌠The evil wizard. Einarâs Gandalf andââ
âActually, since youâre someone different, we decided to switch too,â Einar cuts in. âNadzâll do Gandalf, Iâll be Galadriel.â
âHuh,â Dragos says, though he doesnât turn to them. âCool.â
Luca, for some reason, starts to blush while he stares wide-eyed at Einar, who smirks languidly at him. Itâs probably a good thing Dragos doesnât notice; despite the fact that Lucaâs almost twenty now and goes to university, heâs still very much a kid to his brother. Stefan frowns at Einar in his stead.
âWe, uhâŚâ Luca clears his throat. âWe wanted to go as Avatar, but there werenât enough characters. And Leon kept calling everyone racist, though I think he was joking.â
âOh! Iâve seen Avatar!â Stefan puts in. This is rare!
âWhat?â Dragos says, incredulous. âWhen did you watch Avatar and why was I not there?â
âI had a date, he took me. I donât think I really got it.â
âOh my fucking god, you mean the blue alien Avatar!â Dragos shakes his shoulders emphatically.
Yeah, there had definitely been blue aliens. âThe guy tried to explain it to me, I think it was part two?â
âWho even thinks thatâs a good date?â Dragos seems very impassioned now, which makes Stefan smile.
âI liked Blue Alien Avatar,â Einar says mildly.
âOh, great! Stef, was this date a tall, blond dude, because he sounds like Einarâs type!â
He had been, actually. âIâd thought you might like him. He told me he does these historical dress-up things, too. Looked pretty neat.â
âElves arenât historical, Borisov,â Nadzeya says, while Einar leans forward with interest, chin in his hand.
âHe kept trying to tell me about Rusvik.â Stefan shrugs. He still has no idea what that is. Might as well be elves. He also has no idea anymore what the guyâs name was.
âHuh,â Einar says, contemplative. âYâknow what, Stefan, that does actually sound like my type.â
âFucking nerd,â Nadzeya snipes, somehow affectionately, as though she isnât part of this strange group as well. Dragos smiles a conspiratorial little smile at Stefan, winking, and then tells him to go make his goulash and pushes him gently out the door, promising to fill him in on the elf business over dinner.
-
âAre you serious?â
Dragos chews on his lip and flails his hands apologetically. Stefan crosses his arms over his bare chest. Early morning sunlight streams in through the high window of the bathroom and across his shoulders.
âYou have a fake beard and I have to shave,â he mutters. âHowâs that fair?â
âYou see why Iâm normally Elrond.â Dragos bounces on the tips of his toes.
Stefan does fit his costume; theyâve checked. His chest is a little broader than Dragosâs, but honestly, that just means he fills out the robes better. Arthurâs Saruman outfit fits Dragos as well. He isnât wearing it now, not yet, only having put a tank top on before telling Stefan to go shave before he put his clothes on.
âAnyway, I know you, youâll have stubble again by the end of the afternoon. And really, you should see Nadzeyaâs beard.â
Einar, of course, also fit perfectly into her Galadriel dress, apart from the stuffed bra he had to wedge underneath. He pulls it off, because Einar can pull everything off. Itâs a real shame heâs not Dragosâs type. Maybe Stefanâs stupid former date will appreciate it.
Stefan is shaking his head but smiling wryly.
âThe things I do for you, Dragos,â he says, running his fingers over the stubble on his chin. Dragos beams at him and touches his cheek.
âIâm sure itâll look good. BesidesâŚâ He rests the fingertips of his other hand on his breastbone. âAt least itâs just the facial hair, huh?â
That gets him a pained expression, followed by Stefan squirming away when Dragos moves his hand. Oh! Heâd almost forgotten heâs ticklish! It seemed much more relevant when they were kids.
âDragos,â Stefan says warningly, jaw clenching underneath his other hand. âHeyââ
Because Dragos wriggles his fingers some more, grinning with delight when Stefan gasps and grabs his wrist, squirming. He hits the sink when he steps back, inadvertently tugging Dragos with him.
âOh my god,â says Luca, suddenly, from the bathroom doorway. Widening his eyes, Dragos turns to his brother, who is already in his costume.
âThis is not what it looks like.â
âIt⌠Itâs not?â He looks between the two of them while Dragos takes a step back. Stefan shakes his head, crossing his arms again.
âOh,â Luca says. âAre you sure?â
âYes?â Dragos glances at Stefan, who shrugs, amused.
âJesus fuck.â Luca turns and stalks away, throwing his hands up.
âHey, language!â Stefan tells him before Dragos can, but Luca doesnât react. And, âHey, how come he gets a waistcoat and I have to wear robes?â
âJust go shave,â Dragos tells him, laughing, and he briefly touches his cheek again on the way out.
-
ErzsĂŠbet texts, âborisov ur such a pushoverâ, with a picture attached of Stefan in his Allround outfit, holding a sword, which he thought was actually pretty cool. Stefan blinks at his phone, pausing in eating his lunch.
âwhered you get that photo?â he sends back.
âluca. but srsly say no to balan sometimesâ
âI had a good timeâ
âugh. everyone i know is a nerdâ
Stefan shrugs, returning to his salad. He doesnât know, at this point, why ErzsĂŠbet dislikes Dragos, and vice-versa, but he thinks the two of them might have forgotten as well, so heâs not going to look into it at all. Itâs probably something stupid anyway, knowing the both of them.
âEverything okay?â TorbjĂśrn asks, across the table in their workshop.
âSure.â
The man nods, eating his sandwich.
ââM takinâ next week off,â he says after a while. Stefan nods; heâd seen the schedule. Since itâs summer, it hasnât been very busy, so heâll be fine on his own.
âSpecial occasion?â he asks. Couldnât be his birthday; thatâs in June, and itâs August now. TorbjĂśrn smiles minutely.
âWedding anniversary. Twelve years.â
âThatâs nice. Congratulations.â
âYâever think about getting married?â TorbjĂśrn asks, lifting his cup of coffee.
Stefan laughs. âSure, if I find the right person. Dragos has all these ideas about weddings, you know that? Heâs a romantic, really. Probably knows what I should wear and all.â
TorbjĂśrn stares at him with those piercing eyes of his, coffee raised to his lips and steam fogging up the edges of his glasses.
âI see,â he rumbles eventually. âAnd youâd let him tell you?â
âI trust him,â Stefan says. If anyone knows what looks nice on him, itâs Dragos.
âI see,â TorbjĂśrn repeats.
âAnyway, next weekâdo you have any projects I ought to know about?â
-
Luca is looking uncharacteristically serious, which immediately has Dragos on edge when he opens the door. Itâs not unusual for his brother to visit over the weekend; he has his own apartment now, with a yearmate from university, but he knows heâs always welcome in Dragosâs house. Even if Dragos is still a little insulted him and his odd friend group donât use his specifically furnished side room to play Dungeons & Dragons. Luca says itâs too far away, but still.
âWhatâs wrong?â Dragos asks nervously.
Luca purses his lips. Swipes his ever-longer hair over one shoulder.
âI want toâŚâ He frowns, seemingly thinking while he flops down on Dragosâs shitty couch. From the open window, the smell of fried food wafts into the room.
âYou can tell me anything, Luc.â
âI know.â He smiles softly. âOkay, letâs say I need advice.â
âOkay, letâs say that,â Dragos agrees, leaning forward in his chair.
âWhat if thereâs a⌠A guy, whoâs my friend, right? And heâs always around?â Luca winds his hair around his fingers. âAnd I really like having him around.â
Dragos nods. Heâs reminded of Luca coming out to him a few years ago, although that felt more matter-of-fact; he knew Dragos would have no problems with whatever his sexuality was. He must really like this guy.
âAnd this guy, heâs always touching meâwhich I like!âand he seems happy to see me whenever,â Luca continues. âAnd I like to help him out when he wants, you know? It makes me feel nice.â
âThatâs great, Luc. It sounds like you donât really need my adviceâif youâd want to date this guy, I mean.â
âYeah, you think so?â
âSure!â Dragos leans forward to clasp his brotherâs knee briefly. âSounds like heâs into you!â
âCool. So, uhâŚâ Luca takes a deep breath. âWhy exactly are you not dating Stefan?â
âWhat?â Dragos exclaims. Where did that come from?
âThose are all things you and Stefan do!â
âThatâs⌠Luc, thatâs different.â
âWhy?â He runs a hand through his hair. âIâm not saying those things canât be platonic, but I know you, both of you. Theyâre not!â
âOf course they are!â
âDo you touch Nadzeya that much? Does Einar come over and make you dinner?â
âWell, noâNadz doesnât like to be touchedââ
âStefan doesnât like to be touched! Youâve told me that!â
With a gasp, Dragos says, âHe doesnât! Oh, do you think Iâve been overstepping his boundaries?â
âWhat? No, Dragos, thatâs the point! His boundaries are different for you!â Luca flops backwards on the couch, pushing both hands into his hair. âYou canât be this stupid!â
âHey.â Why is his brother so hung up on his love life, anyway? Or, lack of love life, as it were. Dragos had meant to go out to a bar sometime this summer, maybe meet someone, but then Stefan will be there with dinner and theyâll hang out and itâll be too late. He never gets the sense Stefan minds, either. Maybe they could go out together.
âSo thereâs no guy?â he asks Luca.
âNo, thereâs no guy, Dragos. Not for me, anyway. Look, wouldnât it make you happy to be with Stefan?â
âIt already does.â
Luca stares at him. âGod, I wish you were joking.â And, in response to Dragos raising his eyebrows, âNo, thatâs good, Dra. And if you were the type of person for a platonic sort of romance, then, you know, whatever. But you were the one reading me all those love stories when I was a kid. Youâre a romantic at heart. I know you are.â
âStef says that a lot.â Dragos smiles. Itâs nice to hear.
âOh my fucking god!â
-
âHello, Stefan,â Einar drawls from behind the register, looping a green yarn over his fingers.
âHi. Is Dragos in?â
âOut to get lunch.â
Stefan nods and makes his way to the door in the back of the shop, pulling his key to Dragosâs apartment out. He just needs to pick up a shirt that Dragos has said would suit him better; heâs going to dinner with ErzsĂŠbet and she insists he look âpresentable, at the very leastâ. Her and Dragos agree that Stefan doesnât know how to dress himself, and thatâs the only thing.
Itâs vaguely insulting, because heâs in his thirties, but at least Dragos will help him out, which is more than can be said for ErzsĂŠbet.
The shirt, found hanging over the back of Dragosâs couch, is a nice deep green, nearly black, and it fits great, so Stefan keeps it on when he leaves. He has no work this afternoon, so itâll be fine.
When he opens the door, it almost slams into a customer, but the man jumps away just in time, narrowly avoiding a rack of trading cards.
âSorry.â Stefan squints up at the man, who blinks back.
âOh, Stefan. I didnât know you worked here.â Itâs the guy who took him to see Blue Alien Avatar, whose name Stefan still cannot recall even though he forwarded his contact info to Einar a few weeks back.
âHe doesnât,â Einar says, coming over to inspect the trading cards. And, frowning, âIs that that shirt Dragos bought yesterday?â
âHe thought itâd look nice.â
âYou two are precious,â Einar informs him flatly.
Blue Alien Avatar man adjusts his glasses, looking down at Stefan. God, right, thatâs another reason that didnât work; heâs just too tall. Stefan would prefer to date someone of his own height.
âSo youâre⌠You live here?â the guy asks.
Before Stefan can clarify, Dragos bursts into his store and immediately exclaims, âI told you itâd look good on you!â He waves a panini around as he strides over. âYouâre wasted on ErzsĂŠbet HĂŠdervĂĄry, truly.â
âHa, she wishes.â Stefan smiles when that makes Dragos laugh, and stands still so the man can adjust his shirt and gently muss his hair with one hand, wiping at something on his cheek with his tongue between his teeth.
Blue Alien Avatar guy turns to Einar and asks, âHow long haveââ
âTheyâre not.â
Dragos nods, satisfied, and holds his panini out to Stefan in invitation, so he folds his fingers over Dragosâs and takes a careful bite of it.
âSurelyâŚâ
âYou see what I gotta deal with here, Eduard.â
Ah! That was his name.
âSo no dinner tonight?â Dragos asks. Stefan shakes his head apologetically. âThatâs okay. Iâll see you!â
âSee you, Dra.â Stefan touches his arm and nods politely at Einar and Blue Alien Eduard as he leaves.
-
âAlright, Iâll give you a minute toââ Einar is interrupted by a rattling at the door of the shop that makes everyone look up. âWhat the hell?â
Frowning, Dragos gets up from the game table and pokes his head out of the window facing the street to see what the commotion is. The sun has not yet set but is low, and in its orange light, he sees that it is Stefan trying the locked door.
âStef!â he calls, and leans further out of the window when Stefan peers into the sunlight at him. âWhat the hell are you doing?â
Stefan hurries over. Heâs still wearing the nice green shirt and looks quite agitated, so Dragos leans over, resting his torso on the windowsill to grasp his friendâs shoulder.
âWhat happened? Did ErzsĂŠbet do something?â he asks with concern.
Blinking, Stefan shakes his head. In the orange light, his eyes are an almost translucent shade of green, and Dragos can see the brown undertones in his black hair, nearly gold.
âSo why are you here? Are you okay?â Dragos touches Stefanâs forehead with his free hand, letting his fingers slip down the side of his face. He feels fine, sun-warmed but not hot. Inside, Luca asks something and Nadzeya grumbles an answer.
âI donât⌠You know, itâs stupid,â Stefan says, voice low. He averts his gaze, pressing his lips together.
âIâm sure itâs not, Stef.â Dragos tugs him a little closer to the window so he can lean more comfortably on the sill.
âNo, Iâm pretty sure it is.â Stefan touches his wrist, fingers warm on his skin, and looks back at him. âWe were at dinner, and someone thought we were a couple.â
âYou and ErzsĂŠbet?â Dragos asks incredulously. He digs his fingers into Stefanâs shoulder. The nerve! He deserves much better than her!
âYes! And I corrected the guy, immediately!â
âOf course!â
âDragos, people think weâre a couple all the time!â
âWellââ
âAnd I never correct them!â His eyes are wide, almost frantic. âI just donât!â
âBut thatâŚâ Dragos frowns, and then he just looks at Stefan for a while, as Stefan looks right back, his fingers curled around his wrist. Because Dragos is still touching his face, basically cupping his jaw with one hand while he leans out of his shop window. The street is otherwise deserted, although he wouldnât have cared if it werenât.
Slowly, he runs his other hand up from Stefanâs shoulder, across his neck to his face as well. He rasps his thumb over the stubble on his jaw. Watches him part his lips and breathe out slowly.
âWhy donât I correct them?â Stefan asks, nearly in a whisper.
âBecauseâŚâ Dragos meets his eye. âBecause they arenât wrong.â
âFuck,â Stefan sighs, eyes closing briefly. âTheyâre not, are they?â
âOh my god, Stef, weâre so stupid!â Dragos tugs him closer and leans further forward so that their foreheads touch, and he feels, more than hears, Stefan laugh. He tries to imagine, just for a moment, doing that with Einar, with Nadzeya, with anyone else, but⌠It doesnât feel like it should even be a possibility. His boundaries are different for Stefan as well, he supposes.
âHave we really missed out on much, though?â Stefan is asking, wryly.
âYou⌠You could make breakfast, not just dinner,â Dragos says, curling his fingers against his skin. âI could introduce you as my partner. We couldââ
Stefan turns his face up and kisses him, slotting their lips together as if itâs the most natural thing in the world, and Dragos is sure he almost tumbles out into the street, the way he melts into it.
âWell, and we could do that,â he mumbles, half into Stefanâs mouth, and feels him smile against his lips before pressing them back together. The little noise he makes when Dragos swipes his tongue over his lips is sure to be seared into his memory from here on outâjust like the way his stubble rasps against his skin, the way his fingers curl into Dragosâs hair, tugging it out of its half-up ponytail, the wayâ
âFucking finally!â
Stefan almost drags Dragos from his window when he stumbles backwards, and Dragos blinks dumbly at him before registering the voice from down the street and turning to glare at ErzsĂŠbet.
âWhat the fuck are youââ
âDra?â Luca asks from behind him, peering out of the window as well. âHi, Stefan.â
âLuca!â ErzsĂŠbet yells, though sheâs coming closer. Dragos wants to say something else, but Stefan rolls his eyes, steps back forward, and kisses him again, and he decides he really doesnât care.
âNo way!â Luca exclaims.
âI know, right?â
There is only Stefan for a long while, then, tilting his head to meet Dragosâs mouth again and again, as if heâs making up for lost time because theyâve really been idiots, possibly for years. When Dragos finally resurfaces from kissing him, Stefan is flushed, his eyes are dark, and, for some reason, Luca is outside on the street with ErzsĂŠbet, as are Einar and Nadzeya.
âGuys?â he asks, blinking, his voice somehow hoarse. They werenât finished with the game. But⌠He looks back down at Stefan as he touches the corner of his lips with a callused thumb. âRight. Come in.â And, when Stefan steps closer to the window, âThe door, Stef!â
âOh, good, theyâre gonna be stupid in brand new ways now,â Nadzeya says, but Dragos doesnât really care because then Stefan is inside and he can press him against the door, fitting their entire bodies together.
Stefan touches his face, his neck, with careful fingertips as if exploring him. He smells, as he always does, like sawdust and cigarette smoke, and Dragos has known that for years, but the way he smiles sends shivers down his spine. He grins, and Stefan grins back, eyes crinkling at the corners.
âOh my god, I love you,â Dragos blurts. Heâs known that too, for years, he just didnât realize how.
âStupid,â Stefan mutters. But, as he leans so close their lips nearly touch again, he whispers, âI love you too.â
-
Itâs dark by the time Dragos is done in the shop, and he eagerly makes his way to his apartment, only to find Stefan sprawled on the couch, looking at his phone. He smiles up at Dragos when he enters.
âWhatâs this?â Dragos lets himself be tugged down to sit sideways on the couch next to Stefan, and then gladly leans over to kiss him, his hair spilling around both their faces. Stefan tucks some of it behind his ear when he pulls back, licking his lips.
âWhat do you mean, whatâs this?â
Dragos raises one eyebrow, which makes him laugh, eyes bright.
âI canât just be at your place?â He sits up straight.
ââCourse you can. Iâd be more confused if you werenât.â He puts a hand on Stefanâs thigh, stretched out on the couch next to him, and is pleased to note a hitch in the manâs breath. âYou know several customers think weâre married?â
âHm. How long have they thought that?â
Dragos grimaces, and Stefan laughs again, then suddenly blinks, falling silent. He meets Dragosâs eye and takes a deep breath.
âMaybe we should be married.â
âMaybeâwhat?â Dragos gasps. âIs thatâStefan, is that a proposal?â
âHuh, I guess.â
âYou guess?â And, before he can reply to that, âI mean, yes, obviously we should get marriedââ
Stefan kisses him, hard, and Dragos lets himself be dragged back down eagerly. Itâs a long while before they finally circle backâfirst to the shittiest proposal ever, which Stefan promises heâll make up for as if he didnât do just that, but Dragos is curious to find out what heâll come up with anyway, and then to what Dragos had originally wanted to know.
He rests his chin on Stefanâs chest and looks up at him, asking, âSo whatâs for dinner, then?â
âYou see,â Stefan says, flushed and rumpled underneath him, âsometimes, a man is eagerly anticipating some takeout pizza.â
hello! welcome to uhh... estliet meetcute time? nothing real fancy here, just a little thing based on a prompt I saw somewhere... at some point
--
Turquoise
characters/pairings:Â Estonia (Eduard)/Lithuania (Toris), ft background Ukraine (Iryna)/Belgium (Manon)
word count: 2139
summary:
The man sitting outside the fitting rooms at the store wasn't Eduard's friend like he expected, but that didn't mean he couldn't hear him out. He did, after all, look very nice.
--
With a sigh, Eduard turned to look at his own back in the mirror. After an entire afternoon of harshly-lit, upscale fitting rooms, he wasnât even sure he could say how many outfits he had tried on, and his energy was waning. Youâd think he was the one getting married, from the way Iryna had scrutinized the various suits. He wasnât even in her bridal party; there was no way it really mattered this much what he wore at her wedding.
These slacks were nice, though. Or, at the very least, they were the right length. With how tall Eduard was, heâd flashed Iryna quite some ankle over the past few hours, so that was already an improvement. And he liked the color of this suit, a dark but vibrant turquoise, much more than that burgundy one sheâd been enthusiastic about earlier. He had also learned a lot of new color words. Apparently, he looked bad in plum.
Nodding at his slightly messy-haired reflection, he pushed aside the curtain closing off the fitting room and started to walk out, calling, âI like this one, Iryna. The colorâs different, but I think the rest is basically the same as that red one you liked. Iâm still not sure about the vest, though, it seems a bitâŚâ
He froze in his tracks outside the fitting rooms when he registered the person sitting on the bench there, who definitely wasnât Iryna. Instead, there was a man, about Eduardâs age, looking up from a notebook with amusement on his face as he tucked long brown hair behind one ear. Eduard blinked at him and tried to pat his own hair down in the face of this handsome stranger watching him with curiosity.
âUh, so sorry,â he said, flustered. âI thought my friend was⌠Did you happen to see a tall, blond woman around here?â
The man smiled, capping his fountain pen with careful, elegant fingers. âShe just went back out into the store, I think.â
âAh. Okay. Great, more suits.â Eduard straightened his jacket, absentmindedly watching his reflection do the same. He didnât want to go out and look for Iryna, not in only his socksâparticularly since he was unfortunately wearing Christmas tree-patterned socks in Aprilâand thought it would be weird to go back into his fitting room now, like a child waiting for their parent to come pick them up. He glanced at the man on the bench, who was now tapping his closed pen against his lips, distractingly. There were a few shopping bags on the floor by his feet, and a small box sitting on the bench.
âCan I say something?â the man asked after a moment. He was soft-spoken but clear, his smile threading through his words.
âAbout my suit?â
He nodded, twirling his pen around.
âGo ahead,â Eduard said, turning more towards him.
âWell, I obviously didnât see the red version of this, but I think this probably suits you better. Red would wash you out, Iâd guess.â He shrugged, smiling and still fidgeting with his pen. âThe vest probably depends on the occasion, but I think it⌠It adds something.â
The man ducked his head slightly, hair falling around his face, and Eduard bit his lip. He probably shouldnât take fashion advice from random strangers, no matter how handsome, but he could see that, although the manâs clothes werenât anything flashy, they were a nice quality and well-coordinated, from his maroon sweater to his dark jeans, and a woollen coat hung over the back of the bench. Vaguely, he thought Iryna might approve. He did; the red brought out gold in the manâs hair and warm tones in his skin. He didnât think he knew clothes could do that before this afternoon, but he appreciated it now that he saw it in action. It made him want to touch.
âItâs for a wedding,â he clarified instead, curling his fingers.
âThen the vest is probably a good addition. Andâhm.â The man looked up at the bright lights for a moment, allowing Eduard to see that his eyes were pine green, and then back at him. âIf you usually wear those glasses, with the silver, those will match better with turquoise than red, I think.â He looked away again, to hook his pen into the spiral ring of his notebook. The writing on the page was in purple ink.
âSo youâre⌠An expert?â Eduard asked, which made him laugh softly and melodiously as he shook his head.
âNot at all. Iâm finishing a degree in psychology; Iâve just been cajoled into a lot of shopping trips by a friend of mine, and he has far too many opinions on clothes to ignore.â By the way he gestured at the fitting rooms, Eduard guessed this friend was the reason the man was sitting here at all.
âWell, thank you anyway. I feel like Iâve needed a second opinion,â he said, and looked in the mirror again. The vest was nice, even if the effect of its black fabric on his black shirt was subtle. Besides, itâd probably be useful to have, anyway.
âOf course,â the man was saying, and he ran a hand through his hair when Eduard looked at him, so that it fell in messy waves around his face. How did that manage to look so good? It gave him the appearance of being a little roguish, behind the gentle smile. âIâm always happy to⌠To help out a handsome man in a suit.â
Eduard blinked, swallowing hard. The suit suddenly felt much too tight, and the manâs smile was far too distracting to be allowed.
âYeah?â he squeaked, embarrassingly. Where was Iryna? What was she even doing out there? Even after all these years, Eduard obviously still didn't know how to flirt, and she was getting married. She must have learned at some point, and he felt like he needed help.
The man let out a long breath and his smile widened a fraction, eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at Eduard. His fingers were drumming on his notebook.
Luckily, before Eduard could say the only thing he could think of, which was âwhat about helping a man out of a suit?â, Iryna walked back into the fitting room area, carrying a bunch of ties, which she dropped on the bench to make a beeline for Eduard.
âEduard, this is nice!â she said, fussing with his lapels. âThough I did like the burgundy on you.â
Eduard shot a look at the man on the bench, who quirked his eyebrows as he uncapped his pen.
âI think it washed me out, Iryna.â
She pursed her lips, then nodded and stepped back, and gestured for him to spin around, which he did.
âAlright, then.â She nodded again. âWell, I suppose this is the best we can do!â
While Eduard pushed at her shoulder, pretending to be offended, the man on the bench muttered something under his breath that made Iryna turn around, crossing her arms.
âExcuse me?â she asked, and the man cleared his throat, green gaze flicking to Eduard and back to her as he wet his lips.
âI was just saying, uhâŚâ He made a small gesture with his pen. âThis color brings out his eyes, and I think that⌠Certainly, no one would want to miss that.â
Mouth opening and closing, Iryna turned back to frown up at Eduard, who shrugged even though his heart was beating overtime.
âHe says heâs not an expert, but I think he knows what heâs talking about.â
That made the man smile down at his notebook. Huh. Maybe he did know what to say, sometimes.
âOh, alright,â Iryna conceded. âYou know I was just joking. You look great, Ed, and Manon and I are happy to have you.â She gave him a gentle push back towards the fitting rooms. As he went toâfinallyâget changed back into his comfortable sweater and jeans for the last time today, he saw a short, blond man emerging from one of the other fitting rooms and stride out with a shirt slung over his arm.
By the time Eduard emerged, tugging his coat on, Iryna was waiting for him, sans ties, and no one else was there. He tried his best not to feel disappointed. Itâd probably been a fluke. He hadnât even asked the manâs name, after all.
âAlright?â Iryna asked, taking the turquoise suit from him.
âReady to go,â he replied. âYou promised Manon would make dinner, donât think I forgot.â
As she walked away with a laugh, he spotted something on the bench, right where the man had been sitting. The box that had been there next to himâa tie box, Eduard realized. There was a small bow sitting on top of the box, folded out of lined paper with a trailing line of purple ink just visible. Taking a deep breath, he picked the bow up and unfolded it carefully.
In neat cursive, the page read, I think Iâve forgotten my tie. It would be appreciated if whoever finds it, could return it to me, particularly if they look great in turquoise and they donât check who theyâre talking to. Toris Laurinaitis, with a phone number scribbled underneath.
âEduard!â Iryna called, marching back in while he stared at the notebook page, grinning like a fool. Toris. âIâd like to get home before dinner gets cold. You know how Manon gets about her stew.â
âHuh?â Oh, right. Food. Nodding, Eduard carefully folded the note and tucked it into his wallet. Iryna looked amused as he followed her out to the cash register to pay for his new outfit. They watched the employee fold the clothes carefully into a paper bag, and she nudged him.
âI guess the turquoise was the right choice according to the commentators?â
âCommentator,â he corrected, which made her laugh. She hooked her arm through his and led him out of the store, and finally over to her place to eat her fiancĂŠeâs long-awaited dinner.
After the stew, which was delicious as usual, Eduard tuned out Iryna and Manon chatting to pull out his phone and send a text.
Hello Toris, I think youâve forgotten a new tie at the store. Honest mistake, Iâm sure! But I would be glad to return it and to hear more of your expert opinions on what Iâm wearing, if you feel inclined :)
Eduard Mets
It seemed only fair to offer his full name in return, he thought. Iryna glanced over with raised eyebrows when his phone dinged, and he smiled innocently at her before reading the reply Toris had sent.
As I said, Iâm not an expert! But if you insist, I can probably think of something to say if and when you return my new tie
When sounds good, Eduard replied, saving the contact information in his phone.
âAny reason in particular heâs smiling like a doofus?â Manon asked Iryna, on the other side of the room, and Iryna snorted.
Great! Any chance at all you have a free afternoon this weekend?
I have a free Sunday afternoon :) I do hope you will recognize me without my suit.
Eduard squinted at that message after he sent it. Was that suggestive? It was hard to tell sometimes, and he hoped Toris wouldnât think he was coming on very strong all of a sudden. He didnât seem like a man who would appreciate that.
Iâm sure I will either way. As I said, I donât think anyone would want to miss eyes like yours
Adjusting his glasses, Eduard felt his face flush as he smiled at his phone. Another message from Toris appeared quickly following that one, as he was still trying to think of a good reply.
Thereâs a bakery off Main St that has these amazing pastries, if thatâs something youâre interested in
Toris, that is all it would have taken!
He wasnât even kidding.
Really? Well, good to know for reference. I really donât think I have much more fashion advice to offer you
Just then, Iryna leaned over the back of her couch, putting a hand on his shoulder.
âEduard, just tell the man youâll meet him for pastries,â she said, sounding amused. âAnd if youâre going to sext, please leave our house.â
âIâm notââ he stammered, tilting his phone away. How long had she been standing there? Manon laughed out loud, and Iryna shook her head at him, smiling.
âI know. But really, go meet him. Itâll be good.â
Thatâs alright, Iâm sure there are other things to talk about. Iâd like to find out. I will meet you Sunday off Main, then!
Iâd like to find out as well. Iâll see you Sunday, Eduard
He would have to check if he had anything turquoise to wear.
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Belarus and Estonia like to argue, and who's Lithuania to judge? However, he might have to judge a little when it suddenly turns into something else entirely.
--
1994
ââbecause you always think youâre so damn smart!â
Lithuania chews his sandwich and continues to ignore the stupid argument Belarus and Estonia are having. Or, well⌠Itâs pretty one-sided from Belarusâs side, he thinks, because, especially over the past century, Estonia has really honed this mild, almost bland persona of his. It was often the best way to escape notice, which has been very valuable in years past.
âBut I am,â heâs saying now, sounding ever-so-innocent about it, which is sure to rile Belarus up more.
Across the kitchen table, Ukraine catches Lithuaniaâs eye. They just shrug at each other. Latvia, quite wisely, decided earlier heâd go out to buy lunch to get away from all their official meetings today.
âJust because youâre fucking ancient doesnât mean youâre smarter than me!â Belarus shouts.
âHey, hey, I didnât say that!â For the first time, Estonia slightly raises his voice in turn.
Lithuania glances over at the two of them, but quickly turns his attention back to his sandwich. Heâs got another one, and is regretting having put cheese on both. He leans over to Ukraine.
âAny chance you want to trade me some lunch?â he asks softly, while Belarus shouts, âThatâs what it damn well sounds like, Estonia!â
âDonât put words in my mouth!â Estonia yells, which makes them both look over. Thatâs very unusual, for him, and as far as Lithuania knows, it always has been. Of course, Estonia practically lived a whole life before he even existed, but he likes to think he knows him well by now.
Ukraine tuts, turning back. âI have some salad, if youâd like that?â
With a slightly pained look, she slides a small plastic container across the table, and he hands her his second sandwich.
âYou canât take me, Estonia.â
âHa! You fucking think?â
That makes Ukraine raise her eyebrows while she chews the sandwich, though Lithuania is less impressed. Just because Estonia doesnât swear a lot, doesnât mean it is particularly surprising either.
âOh,â Belarus says, voice startlingly low in obvious challenge, âI would love to see you try.â
She has, Lithuania sees, crowded close to Estonia and is poking him in the chest with her long, black nails. Estonia is narrowing his eyes behind his glasses as he gazes down at her, drawn up to his full height. His fingers are flexing, and his nostrils flare.
Ukraine hums, swallowing, and says, âDo you think we shouldââ
Lithuania canât even say which of them moves first, thatâs how fast it happens; between one blink and the next, Belarus has her hands wrung into Estoniaâs sweater, his hands are in her long hair, and she stumbles backwards as their mouths slam together. Lithuania hears her make a sound deep in her throat that he never imagined she could even produce.
âUh,â Ukraine says.
Sheâs just as frozen in place as Lithuania is, both of them staring as Estonia backs Belarus up until she hits the fridge, their lips still locked and moving frantically. His glasses are knocked askew, and he is messing up Belarus's hair beyond belief.
âLithuania,â Ukraine whispers urgently, âwhat in the world?â
He can only make a confused noise in reply, watching with morbid fascination as Belarus runs her hands across Estoniaâs back and one of his long legs presses up between her thighs. What in the world, indeed.
Oh, thank god, theyâre parting nowâno, thatâs not better. Both are breathing heavily. Belarus grins wildly up at Estonia, who honest-to-god smirks back and moves his leg, both of them obviously forgetting they are in a kitchen. With other people. Sheâs running her hands up under his sweater now!
Just as the two of them lean in again and press their lips back together, Ukraine whistles sharply between her fingers. Belarus knocks her head against the fridge, and Estonia stumbles back, tripping over his own feet. Both are flushed when they look over. As if it wasnât weird enough before; Lithuania never thought heâd see the day Belarus blushed.
âPlease get a room,â Ukraine says, sounding exasperated.
âWeâre in aââ both of them start at the same time. They look at each other. Ukraine whistles once more before they start again, although Lithuania doesnât know whether they were about to continue making out or arguing.
Estonia clears his throat, slowly disentangling himself from Belarus, who smooths down first his sweater and then her own hair, and her skirt.
âWe shouldâŚâ he starts. Belarus rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and then, without another word, she drags him out of the kitchen.
Ukraine and Lithuania sit in stunned silence for a while, blinking at each other. Eventually, Ukraine slowly picks up the cheese sandwich, lifting it to her mouth.
âWhat the fuck!â Latvia shouts, bursting into the room. âWhy are Belarus and Estonia making out in the hall? I was gone for half an hour!â
Lithuania drops his forehead on the kitchen table.
another first kiss outsider pov fic! you know, I don't think I've written prumano since, like, 2012. pretty sure they were one of my first solid Hetalia ships!
--
belong
pairings/characters: Prussia/Romano, Germany
word count: 721
summary:
Germany is in search of Romano, and finds something unexpected.
--
2001
There is an empty chair at the meeting table. Since they canât discuss Italyâs plans when only half of Italy is present, Germany sacrifices himself to go in search of Romano. He can hardly get more hated by him, anyway.
After not spotting him in the hotel lobby, Germany goes and knocks on South Italyâs door, but gets no reply. If he was in, he reasons, heâd certainly answer if just to do some yelling, so what else? The restaurant, perhaps. He checks. No Romano.
Popping his head back into the meeting hall just in case, Germany finds that he hasnât arrived in the meantime. He starts climbing the stairs, thinking Romano might be hiding in the stairwell? But no.
However, at the top of the stairs, there is a door that says âstaff onlyâ and is slightly ajar. In the interest of checking all avenues, Germany pushes the door open and finds himself on the roof of the hotel. Itâs windy up here, but sunny and quiet. He listens more carefully. No, not quiet. He can hear a voice, too far away to make out the words, but it certainly sounds like Romano. Just as he is about to step around the stairwell, Germany recognizes that there is another voice, and thinks, Oh no, there should have been two empty chairs.
They forgot about Prussia. Again.
Taking a deep breath, Germany walks up to the corner of the stairwell and looks around it.
Romano and Prussia are sat, not quite on the edge of the roof but on a ledge a bit away from it, their backs to the stairs. They sit close together, bent towards each other, Romano with one leg folded underneath the other and gesticulating wildly as he speaks, Prussia watching him with a wry smile. They are both wearing suits, as though they got ready for the meeting and then just⌠Ended up on the roof. Germany would love to know how that happened. Are they friends? Why does he not know?
He really should get them both to come down.
Just as he wants to step forward and clear his throat to get their attention, Germany sees Prussia shake his head, in response to which Romano gestures emphaticallyâmore emphatically than usualâand grasps his lapels with both hands. This visibly startles Prussia, and Germany curiously watches his brother touch one of Romanoâs hands, turning more towards him on the ledge.
The wind carries some of Romanoâs words over, most notably, âNo, you fucking idiot,â in French, no less, and Germany bristles on behalf of his brother, but thenâthen Romano leans forward and kisses Prussia, without any anger behind it, just a softness Germany would never have expected from him.
And he thinks, oh, more than friends, even, but then his gaze catches on the way Prussia freezes for just a moment before he responds, curling his fingers around Romanoâs wrist tentatively and leaning his whole body into him as his eyes close. Germany realizes with a shock that this must be new, brand new, and suddenly feels like an intruder. He takes a step back.
Which, of course, makes his foot smash into a vent with a loud clang.
Prussia and Romano startle. Look over at him. Germany holds both hands up apologetically, though Romanoâs expression has already turned murderous.
âWhat the fuck do you want?â he shouts, no longer in French but Italian, letting go of Prussia to gesture. With only one hand though, Germany notes, the other still curled into his lapel.
âIâmâthereâs a meeting,â he says. âIt was supposed to start thirty minutes ago, but weâre missing half of two countries.â
Prussia looks over at him, then, and smiles. He touches Romanoâs hand and says something to him that gets lost to the wind but makes his face soften in a way Germany has never seen.
âFine!â Romano shouts.
Theyâre both coming over, then, and Romano is pointing a threatening finger at Germany without a word as he stalks past to the stairs. Prussia shrugs when Germany looks at him, though heâs smiling as well while he smooths out a crease in his lapel.
âBetter day than I expected, West,â he just says, and hurries after Romano.
Alright. Germany supposes that, in the end, that is the best anyone can ask for.